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YOU'LL BE 

OUT OF 
YOUR SEAT! 

• 

^wded 

OUT OF 
YOUR SKIN! 

# 

BY THE 
SHEER 
TERROR 
OF IT ALL! 



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wilh 

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JAMES SEAY 

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to 

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produced and Directed by 

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Screen Play by 
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Astounding 
SCIENCE FICTION 



VOLUM LIX • NUMBER 5 July 1957 

Silorl' Novel 

Profession Isaac Asimov 8 

Novelette 

Divine Right Lester del Rey 70 

Short Stories 

Run of the Mill 
Hot Potato . . 

The Best Policy 

Article 

The Sea Urchin and We Isaac Asimov 96 

Readers' Departments 

The Editor’s Page .... 

In Times to Come .... 

The Analytical Laboratory 
The Reference Library . . 

Brass Tacks 

£d/tor; JOHN W. CAMPBELL, JR. Ass/sfanf Editor; KAY TARRANT 

Advertising Manager.- WALTER J. McBRlDE 

COVER BV EREAS • ///usfrations by Frees 
SYMBOL; Nonmalleable component 

The editorial contents have iint been publi.shod before, are protected by cnpyriKlit and cannot be roprinleU wUhoiil 
pnblishor’s permissinii. All stories in tins magazine are fiotiun. No actual persons aro desigiiiUed by name or 
character. Any similarity is coincidental. 

Astouriflinff SCIENCK FICTION published monthly by Street & Smith Puhlientions, Incorporated at 575 Madison 
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Arthur P. Lawler, Vice-President and Secretary; Robert E. Park, Vice-President and Advertising Dlrcclor; 
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4 • NEXT ISSUE ON S^LE JULY 16 , 7957 • 



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EDITORIAL 



INTELLIGENCE AMPLIFICATION 



Dr. W. Ross Ashby has, for some 
time, been greatly interested in prob- 
lems of the structure of thinking 
processes; his "Design for a Brain,” 
published some while ago, had some 
magnificent analytical concepts re- 
lating to the problem. For the past 
year or so, he, together with a group 
of others including Claude Shannon, 
von Neumann, and many of the 
other top men of Information 
Theory and Games Theory, has been 
engaged in advanced studies of 
automation concepts. 

Ross Ashby’s principal field has 
been the analysis of the concept of 
an Intelligence Amplifier. The essen- 
t'al concept is that of designing a 
machine which would amplify the 
operator’s intelligence in much the 
way a mechanical engineering device 
amplifies a man’s muscle-power. 
Ashby’s analysis of the problem, as 
a problem, seems extremely interest- 
ing, and its soundness is something 
I’m certainly not qualified to check. 
Considering the team that worked 
on tlie overall problem, however, I 

6 



am quite willing to accept without 
argument tliat the mathematical and 
logical concepts are entirely valid. 

My quarrel is at another level. I 
have two questions: 

1. If yoLi did produce an Intel- 
ligence Amplifier, how would 
you demonstrate that fact, 
prove that you had actually 
achieved the goal? 

2. If the intelligent device were 
perfected, and were operating, 
I suggest that its own intellig- 
ence would automatically oper- 
ate to prevent human detection 
of the fact of its intelligence! 
That it would, very intellig- 
ently, use its intelligence to 
conceal from human detection 
the fact of its intelligence. 

The first question arises from this 
factor: Currently, the only formally 
accepted definition of "intelligence” 
is "that which is measured by intel- 
ligence tests.” 

(Continued on page 152) 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 




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PROFESSION 

Some people just can’t be taught, no matter 
what method you use. Even the Education Tape 
machine failed on some abnormal individuals , . . . 

BY ISAAC ASIMOV 



Illustrated by Freas 



8 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 




George Platen could not conceal 
the longing in his voice. It was too 
much to suppress. He said, "Tomor- 
row’s the first of May. Olympics!” 
He rolled over on his stomach 
and peered over the foot of his bed 
at his roommate. Didn’t he feel it, 
too? Didn’t this make some impres- 
sion on him? 

George’s face was thin and had 
grown a trifle thinner in the nearly 
year and a half that he had been 
at the House. His figure was slight 
but the look in his blue eyes was as 
intense as it had ever been and right 
now there was a trapped look in the 



way his fingers curled against the 
bedspread. 

George’s roommate looked up 
briefly from his book and took the 
opportunity to adjust the light-level 
of the stretch of wall near his chair. 
His name was Hali Omani and he 
was a Nigerian by birth. His dark 
brown skin and massive features 
seemed made for calmness and 
mention of the Olympics did not 
move him. 

He said, "I know, George.” 

George owed much to Hali for 
patience and kindness when it was 
needed, but even patience and kind- 



PROFESSION 



9 



ness could be overdone. Was this a 
time to sit there like a statue built of 
some dark, warm wood? 

George wondered if he, himself, 
would grow like that after ten 
years here and rejected the thought 
violently. No! 

He said, defiantly, "I think you've 
forgotten what May means.” 

The other said, "I remember very 
well what it means. It means noth- 
ing! You’re the one who’s forgotten 
that. May means nothing to you, 
George Platen, and,” he added soft- 
ly, "it means nothing to me, Hali 
Omani.” 

George said, "The ships are com- 
ing in for recruits. By June, thou- 
sands and thousands will leave with 
millions of men and women heading 
for any world you can name, and all 
that means nothing?” 

"Less than nothing. What do you 
want me to do about it, anyway?” 
Omani ran his finger along a diffi- 
cult passage in the book he was 
reading and his lips moved sound- 
lessly. 

George watched him. Divnn it, he 
thought, yell, scream; yon can do 
that much. Kick at me, do any- 
thing. 

It was only that he wanted not 
to be so alone in his anger. He 
wanted not to be the only one so 
filled with resentment, not to be the 
only one dying a slow death. 

It was better those first weeks 
when the Universe was a small shell 
of vague light and sound pressing 
down upon him. It was better before 
Omani had wavered into view and 



dragged him back to a life that 
wasn’t worth living. 

Omani ! He was old ! He was at 
least thirty. George thought: Will 
I be like that at thirty? Will I be 
like that in twelve years? 

And because he was afraid he 
might be, he yelled at Omani, "Will 
you stop reading that fool book?” 
Omani turned a page and read 
on a few words, then lifted his head 
with its skullcap of crisply-curled 
hair and said, "What?” 

"What good docs it do you to 
read the book?” lie stepped for- 
ward, snorted, "More electronics,” 
and slapped it out of Omani’s 
hands. 

Omani got up slowly and picked 
up the book. He smoolhed a crum- 
pled page without visible rancor. 
"Call it the s.itisfaction of curosity,” 
he said. "I understand a little of it 
totlay, perhaps a little more tomor- 
row. That’s a victory in a way.” 

"A victory. What kind of a vic- 
tory? Is that what satisfies you in 
life? To get to know enough to be 
a quarter of a Registered Electroni- 
cian by the time you’re sixty-five?” 
"Perhaps by the time I’m thirty- 
five.” 

"And then who’ll want you? 
Who’ll use you? Where will you 
go?” 

"No one. No one. Nowhere. I’ll 
stay here and read other books.” 
"And that satisfies you? Tell me! 
You’ve dragged me to class. You’ve 
got me to reading and memorizing, 
too. For what? There’s nothing in 
it that satisfies me.” 



10 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



"What good will it do you to 
deny yourself satisfaction?” 

"It means I’ll quit the whole 
farce. I’ll do as I planned to do in 
the beginning before you dovey- 
lovied me out of it. I’m going to 
force them to . . . to — ” 

Omani put down his book. He let 
(he other run down and then said, 
"To what, George?” 

"To correct a miscarriage of jus- 
tice. A frame-up. I’ll get that An- 
(onelli and force him to admit he 
. . . he — ” 

Omani shook his head. "Everyone 
who comes here insists it’s a mis- 
take. 1 thought you’d passed that 
stage.” 

"Don’t call it a stage,” said 
George, violently. "In my case, it’s 
a fact. I’ve told you — ” 

"You’ve told me, but in your 
lieart you know no one made any 
mistake as far as you were concern- 
ed.” 

"Because no one will admit it? 
You think any of them would ad- 
mit a mistake unless they were 
forced to? Well, I’ll force them.” 

It was May that was doing this 
to George; it was Olympics month. 
He felt it bring the old wildness 
back and he couldn’t stop it. He 
didn’t want to stop it. He had been 
in danger of forgetting. 

He said, "I was going to be a 
computer programmer and I can be 
one. 1 could be one today, regardless 
of what they say analysis shows.” 
He pounded his mattress. "They’re 
wrong. They must be.” 



"Tlie analysts are never wrong.” 

"They must be. Do you doubt my 
intelligence?” 

"Intelligence hasn’t one thing to 
do with it. Haven’t you been told 
tliat often enough? Can’t you under- 
stand that?” 

George rolled away, lay on his 
back and stared somberly at the 
ceiling. 

"What did you want to be, Hali?” 

"I had no fixed plans. Hydroponi- 
cist would have suited me, 1 sup- 
pose.” 

"Did you think you could make 
it?” 

"I wasn’t sure.” 

George had never asked personal 
questions of Omani before. It struck 
him as queer, almost unnatural that 
other people had had ambitions and 
ended here. Hydroponicist ! 

He said, "Did you think you’d 
make this}" 

"No, but here I am just the 
same.” 

"And you’re satisfied. Really, real- 
ly satisfied. You’re happy. You love 
it. You wouldn’t be anywhere else.” 

Slowly, Omani got to his feet; 
carefully, he began to unmake his 
bed. He said, "George, you’re a hard 
case. You’re knocking yourself out 
because you won’t accept the facts 
about yourself. George, you’re here 
in what you call the House, but I’ve 
never heard you give it its full title. 
Say it, George, say it. Then go to 
bed and sleep this off.” 

George gritted his teeth and 
showed them. He choked out, "No!” 

"Then I will,” said Omani, and 



PROFESSION 



n 



he did. He shaped each syllable 
carefully. 

George was bitterly ashamed at 
the sound of it. He turned his head 
away. 

For most of the first eighteen 
years of his life, George Platen had 
headed firmly in one direction, that 
of Registered Computer Program- 
mer. There were those in his crowd 
who spoke wisely of Spationautics, 
Refrigeration Technology, Transpor- 
tation Control and even Administra- 
tion. But George held firm. 

He argued relative merits as 
vigorously as any of them, and why 
not? Education Day loomed ahead 
of them and was the great fact of 
their existence. It approached steadi- 
ly, as fixed and certain as the calen- 
dar — the first day of November of 
the year following one’s eighteenth 
birthday. 

After that day, there were other 
topics of conversation. One could 
discuss with others some detail of 
the profession, or the virtues of 
one’s wife and children or the fate 
of one’s space-polo team, or of one’s 
experiences in the Olympics. Before 
Education Day, however, there was 
only one topic that unfailingly and 
unwearyingly held everyone’s inter- 
est and that was Education Day. 

"What are you going for? Think 
you’ll make it? Heck, that’s no good. 
Look at the records; quota’s been 
cut. Logistics now — ’’ 

Or hypermechanics now — 

Or communications now — 

Or gravities now — 



Especially gravities at the moment. 
Everyone had been talking about 
gravities in the few years just before 
George’s Education Day because of 
the development of the gravitic- 
power engine. 

Any world within ten light-years 
of a dwarf star, everyone said, would 
give their eyeteeth for any kind of 
Registered Gravities Engineer. 

The thought of that never both- 
ered George. Sure they would; all 
the eyeteeth they coukl scare up. But 
George had also heard what had 
happened before in a newly-devel- 
oped technique. Rationalization and 
simplification followed in a flood. 
New models each year; new types of 
gravitic engines; new principles. 
Then all those eyeteeth gentlemen 
would find themselves out-of-date 
anti supcrscticd by later models 
with later educations. The first 
group woultl then have to settle 
down to unskilled labor or ship out 
to some backwoods world that 
wasn’t quite caught up yet. 

Now Computer Programmers 
were in steady demand year after 
year, century after century. The de- 
mand never reached wild peaks; 
there was never a howling bull- 
market for Programmers; but the 
demand climbed steadily as new 
worlds opened up and as older 
worlds grew more complex. 

He had argued with Stubby Tre- 
velyan about that constantly. As best 
friends, their arguments had to be 
constant and vitriolic and, of course, 
neither ever persuaded or was per- 
suaded. 



12 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



But then’ Trevelyan had had a fa- 
ther ■who was a Registered Metal- 
lurgist and had actually served on 
one of the Outworlds, and a grand- 
father who had also been a Regis- 
tered Metallurgist. He, himself, was 
intent on becoming a Registered 
Metallurgist almost as a matter of 
family right and was firmly con- 
vinced that any other profession was 
a shade less than respectable. 

"There’ll always be metal,” he 
said, "and there’s an accomplishment 
in molding alloys to specification 
and watching structures grow. Now 
what’s a programmer going to be 
doing? Sitting at a coder all day 
long, feeding some fool mile-long 
machine.” 

Even at sixteen, George had 
learned to be practical. He said, 
simply, "There’ll be a million 
metallurgists pi.it out along with 
you.” 

"Because it’s good. A good pro- 
fession. The best.” 

"But you get crowded out. Stubby. 
You can be way back in line. Any 
world can tape out their own metal- 
lurgists and the market for advanced 
Earth models isn’t so big. And it’s 
mostly the small worlds that want 
them. You know what per cent of 
the turnout of Registered Metallur- 
gists get tabbed for worlds with a 
Grade A rating. I looked it up. It’s 
just 13.3 per cent. That means you’ll’ 
have seven chances in eight of being 
stuck in some world that just about 
has running water. You may even 
be stuck on Earth; 2.3 per cent are.” 

Trevelyan said belligerently. 



"There’s no disgrace in staying on 
Earth. Earth needs technicians, too. 
Good ones.” His grandfather had 
been an Earth-bound metallurgist and 
Trevelyan lifted his finger to his 
upper lip and dabbed at an as-yet 
nonexistent mustache. 

George knew about Trevelyan’s 
grandfather and, considering the 
Earth-bound position of his own 
ancestry, was in no mood to sneer. 
He said, diplomatically, "No intel- 
lectual disgrace. Of course not. But 
it’s nice to get into a Grade A world, 
isn’t it? 

"Now you take programmers. 
Only the Grade A worlds have the 
kind of computers that really need 
first-class programmers so they’re 
the only ones in the market. And 
programmer tapes are complicated 
and hardly any one fits. They need 
more programmers than their own 
population can supply. It’s just a 
matter of statistics. There’s one first- 
class programmer per million, say. 
A world needs twenty ’'arid has a 
population of ten million, they have 
to come to Earth for fro’fii five to 
fifteen programmers. Right? 

"And you know how many Regis- 
tered Computer Programfners went 
to Grade A planets last yeat? I’ll tell 
you. Every last one. If you’re a pro- 
grammer, you’re a picked man. Yes, 
sir.” 

Trevelyan frowned. "If only one 
in a million makes it, what makes 
you think yo«’ll make it?” 

George said, guardedly, "I’ll make 
it.” 

He never dared tell anyone — not 

1 0 
o 



PROFESSION 



Trevelyan, not his parents — exactly 
what he was doing that made him 
so confident. But he wasn’t worried. 
He was simply confident — that was 
the worst of the memories he had 
in the hopeless days afterward. He 
was as blandly confident as the aver- 
age eight-year-old kid approaching 
Reading Day — that childhood pre- 
view of Education Day. 

Of course, Reading Day had been 
different. Partly, there was the sim- 
ple fact of childhood. A boy of 
eight takes many extraordinary 
things in stride. One day you can't 
read and the next day you can. 
That’s just the way things are. Like 
the sun shining. 

And then not so much depended 
upon it. There were no recruiters 
just ahead, waiting and jostling for 
the lists and scores on the coming 
Olympics. A boy or girl who goes 
through the Reading Days is just 
someone who has ten more years of 
undifferentiated living upon Earth’s 
crawling surface; just someone who 
returns to his family with one new 
ability. 

By the time Education Day came, 
ten years later, George wasn’t even 
sure of most of the details of his 
own Reading Day. 

Most clearly of all, he remember- 
ed it to be a dismal September day 
with a mild rain falling. (September 
for Reading Day; November for 
Education Day; May for Olympics. 
They made nursery rhymes out of 
it.) George had dressed by the wall- 
lights, with his parents far more ex- 

14 



cited than he himself was. His father 
was a Registered Pipe-fitter and had 
found his occupation on Earth. This 
fact had always been a humiliation 
to him, although, of course, as any- 
one can see plainly, most of each 
generation must stay on Earth in the 
nature of things. 

There had to be farmers and 
miners and even technicians on 
Earth. It was only the late-model, 
high-specialty professions that were 
in demand on the Outworlds and 
only a few millions a year out of 
Earth’s eight billion population could 
be exported. Every man and wom.in 
on Earth couldn’t be among that 
group. 

But every man and woman could 
hope that at least one of his children 
could be one, and Platen, Senior, was 
certainly no exception. It was ob- 
vious to him -and, to be sure, to 
others as well — that George was not- 
ably intelligent and cjuick-minded. 
He would be bound to do well and 
he would have to, as he was an only 
child. If George didn’t end on an 
Outworld, they would have to wait 
for grandchildren before a next 
chance would come along and that 
was too far in the future to be much 
consolation. 

Reading Day would not prove 
much, of course, but it would be 
the only indication they would have 
before the big day itself. Every 
parent on Earth would be listening 
to the quality of reading when their 
child came home with it; listening 
for any particularly easy flow of 
words and building that into certain 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



omens of the future. There were few 
families that didn’t have at least one 
hopeful who, from Reading Day on, 
was the great hope because of the 
way he handled his trisyllables. 

Dimly, George was aware of the 
cause of his parents’ tension and if 
there was any anxiety in his young 
heart that drizzly morning, it was 
only that his father’s hopeful ex- 
pression might fade out when he re- 
turned home with his reading. 

The children met in the large as- 
sembly room of the town’s education 
hall. All over Earth, in millions of 
local halls, throughout that month, 
similar groups of children would be 
meeting. George felt depressed by 
the grayness of the room and by the 
other children, strained and stiff in 
unaccustomed finery. 

Automatically, George did as all 
the rest of the children did. He 
found the small clique that repre- 
sented the children on his floor of 
(he apartment house and joined 
(hem. 

Trevelyan, who lived immediately 
next door, still wore his hair child- 
ishly long and was years removed 
from the sideburns and thin, reddish 
mustache that, he was to grow as 
soon as he was physiologically capa- 
ble of it. 

'I'rcvelyan — to whom George was 
then known as Jaw-jee — said, "Bet 
you're scared.’’ 

"I am not,’’ said George. Then, 
confidentially, "My folks got a hunk 
of printing up on the dresser in my 
room and when I come home. I’m 
going to read it for them.’’ (George’s 



main suffering at the moment lay 
in the fact that he didn’t quite know 
where to put his hands. He had been 
warned not to scratch his head, or 
rub his ears, or put his hands inh^ 
his pockets. This eliminated almost 
every possibility.) 

Trevelyan put his hands in his 
pockets and said, "My father isn’t 
worried.’’ 

Trevelyan, Senior, had been a 
Metallurgist on Diporia for nearly 
seven years, which gave him a supe- 
rior social status in his neighborhood 
even though he had retired and re- 
turned to Earth. 

Earth discouraged these re-immi- 
grants because of population prob- 
lems, but a small trickle did return. 
For one thing the cost of living 
was lower on Earth and what was a 
trifling annuity on Diporia, say, was 
a comfortable income on Earth. Be- 
sides, there were always men who 
found more satisfaction in display- 
ing their success before the friends 
and scenes of their childhood than 
before all the rest of the Universe. 

Trevelyan, Senior, further explain- 
ed that if he stayed on Diporia, so 
would his children, and Diporia 
was a one-spaceship world. Back on 
Earth, his kids could end anywhere, 
even No via. 

Stubby Trevelyan had picked up 
that item early. Even before Read- 
ing Day, his conversation was 
based on the carelessly-assumed fact 
that his ultimate home would be in 
Novia. 

George, oppressed by thoughts of 



PROFESSION 



15 



the other’s future greatness and his 
own small-time contrast, was driven 
to belligerent defense at once. 

"My father isn’t worried either. 
He just wants to hear me read be- 
cause he knows I’ll be good. I sup- 
pose your father would just as soon 
not hear you, because he knows 
you’ll be all wrong.’’ 

"I will not be all wrong. Reading 
is nothing. On Novia, I’ll hire peo- 
ple to read to me.” 

"Because yon won’t be able to 
read yourself, on account of you’re 
dumb !” 

"Then how come I’ll be on 
Novia?” 

And George, driven, made the 
great denial, '"Who says you’ll be on 
Novia? Bet you don’t go anywhere.” 

Stubby Trevelyan reddened. "I 
won’t be a pipe-fitter like your old 
man.” 

"Take that back, you dumbhead.” 

"You take that back.” 

They stood nose to nose, not 
wanting to fight but relieved at 
having something familiar to do in 
this strange place. Furthermore, now 
that George had curled his hands 
into fists and lifted them before his 
face, the problem of what to do witlr 
his hands was, at least temporarily, 
solved. Other children gathered 
round excitedly. 

But then it all ended when a 
woman’s voice sounded loudly over 
the public address system. There 
was instant silence everywhere. 
George dropped his fists and forgot 
Trevelyan. 

"Children,” said the voice, "we 



are going to call out your names. 
As each child is called, he or she is 
to go to one of the men waiting 
along the side walls. Do you see 
them? They are wearing red uni- 
forms so they will be easy to find. 
The girls will go to the right; this 
direction is right. The boys will go 
to the left; this is left. Now look 
about and see which man in red is 
nearest to you — ” 

George found his man at a glance 
and waited for his name to be called 
off. He had not been introduced be- 
fore this to the sophistications of llie 
alphabet and the length of time it 
took to reach his own name grew 
disturbing. 

The crowd of children thinned; 
little rivulets made their way to 
each of the red-clad guidesi 

When the name "George Platen” 
was finally called, his sense of relief 
was exceeded only by the feeling of 
pure gladness at the fact that Stubby 
Trevelyan still stood in his place, 
uncalled. 

George shouted back over his 
shoulder as he left, "Yay, Stubby, 
maybe they don’t want you;” 

That moment of gayness quickly 
left. He was herded into a line and 
directed down corridors in the com- 
pany of strange children. They all 
looked at one another, large-eyed 
and concerned but beyond a snuf- 
fling, "Quitcher pushing” and "Hey, 
watch out” there was no conversa- 
tion. 

They were handed little slips of 
paper which they were told must 
remain with them. George stared at 



16 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



his curiously. Little black marks of 
different shapes. He knew it to be 
printing, but how could anyone make 
words out of it? He couldn’t 
imagine. 

He was told to strip; he and four 
other boys, who were all that now 
remained together. All the new 
clothes came shucking off and four 
eight-year-olds stood naked and 
small, shivering more out of em- 
barrassment than cold. Medical 
technicians came past, probing them, 
testing them with odd instruments, 
pricking them for blood. Each took 
the little card and made additional 
marks on them with little black rods 
that produced the marks with great 
speed, all neatly-lined up. George 
stared at the new marks, but they 
were no more comprehensible than 
the old. The children were ordered 
back into their clothes. 

They sat on separate little chairs 
then and waited again. Names were 
called again and "George Platen” 
came third. 

He moved into a large room, filled 
w'ith frightening instruments with 
knobs and glassy panels in front. 
There was a desk in the very center 
and behind it a man sat, his eyes on 
the papers piled before him. 

He said, "George Platen?” 

"Yes, sir,” said George, in a 
shaky whisper. All this waiting and 
all this going here and there was 
making him nervous. He wished it 
were over. 

The man behind the desk said, "I 



am Dr. Lloyed, George. How are 
you?” 

The doctor didn’t look up as he 
spoke. It was as though he had said 
those words over and over again'^d 
didn’t have to look up any more. 

"I’m all right.” 

"Are you afraid, George?” 

"N-no, sir,” said George, sound- 
ing afraid even in his own ears. 

"That’s good,” said the doctor, 
"because there’s nothing to be afraid 
of, you know. Let’s see, George. It 
says here on your card that your 
father is named Peter and that he’s 
a Registered Pipe-fitter and your 
mother is named Amy and is a 
Registered Home Technician. Is that 
right?” 

"Y-yes, sir.” 

"And your birthday is February 
13th, and you had an ear infection 
about a year ago. Right? 

"Yes, sir.” 

"Do you know how I know all 
these things?” 

"It’s on the card, I think, sir.” 

"That’s right.” The doctor looked 
up at George for the first time and 
smiled. He showed even teeth and 
looked much younger than George’s 
father. He wore contact lenses which 
made his eyes sparkle. Some of 
George’s nervousness vanished. 

The doctor passed the card to 
George. "Do you know what all 
those things there mean, George?” 

Although George knew he did not 
he was startled by the sudden request 
into looking at the card as though 
he might understand now through 
some sudden stroke of fate. But they 



PROFESSION 



17 



were just marks as before and he 
passed the card back. "No, sir.” 
"Why not?” 

George felt a sudden pang of sus- 
picion concerning the sanity of this 
doctor. Didn’t he know why not? 
George said, "I can’t read, sir.” 
"Would you like to read?” 

"Yes, sir.” 

"Why, George?” 

. George stared, appalled. No one 
had ever asked him that. He had no 
answer. He said, falteringly, "I don’t 
know, sir.” 

"Printed information will direct 
you all through your life. There is 
so much you’ll have to know even 
after Education Day. Cards like this 
one will tell you. Books will tell 
you. Television screens will tell you. 
Printing will tell you such useful 
things and such interesting things 
that not being able to read would be 
as bad as not being able to see. Do 
you understand?” 

"Yes, sir.” 

"Are you afraid, George?” 

"No, sir.” 

"Good. Now I’ll tell you exactly 
what we’ll do first. I’m going to put 
these wires on your forehead just 
over the corners of your eyes. They’ll 
stick there, but they won’t hurt at 
all. Then, I’ll turn on something 
that will make a buzz. It will sound 
funny and it may tickle you, but it 
won’t hurt. Now if it does hurt, you 
tell me, and I’ll turn it off right 
away, but it won’t hurt. All 
right?” 

George nodded and swallowed. 
"Are you ready?” 



George nodded. He closed his 
eyes while the doctor busied him- 
self. His parents had explained this 
to him. They, too, had said it would 
not hurt, but then there were always 
the older children. There were the 
ten and twelve-year olds who howled 
after the eight-year olds waiting for 
Reading Day. "Watch out for the 
needle.” There were the others who 
took you off in confidence ami saiil, 
"They got to cut your head open. 
They use a sharp knife that bi;; with 
a hook on it,” and so on into liorri- 
fying details. 

George liad never bclicvcil lliem 
but he had had nightmares and now 
he closed his eyes and fell pure 
terror. 

He didn’t feel the wires at his 
temple. The buzz was a distant thing 
and there was the sound ol his own 
blood in his ears, ringing hollowly 
as though it and he were in a large 
cave. Slowly he chanced opening 
his eyes. 

The doctor had his back to him. 
From one of the instruments, a strip 
of paper unwound and was covered 
with a thin, wavy purple line. The 
doctor tore off pieces and put them 
into a slot in another machine. He 
did it over and over again. Each time 
a little piece of film came out which 
the doctor looked at. Finally, he 
turned toward George with, a cpieer 
frown between his eyes. 

The buzzing stopped. 

George said, breathlessly, "Is it 
over?” 

The doctor said, "Yes,” but he 
was still frowning. 



18 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



"Can I read now?’’ asked George. 
He felt no different. 

The doctor said, "What?" then 
smiled very suddenly and briefly. He 
said, "It works fine, George. You’ll 
be reading in fifteen minutes. Now 
we’re goinj; to use another machine 
this time and it will take longer. I’m 
going to cover your whole head and 
when I turn it on you won’t be able 
to see, or hear, anything for a while, 
but it won’t hurt. Just to make sure 
I’m going to give you a little switch 
to hold in your hand. If anything 
hurts, you press the little button and 
everything shuts off. All right?” 

In later years, George w'as told 
that the little switch was strictly a 
dummy; that it was introduced solely 
for confidence. He never did know 



of his own knowledge, however, 
since he never pushed the button. 

A large smoothly-curved helmet 
with a rubbery inner lining^ was 
placed over his head and left there. 
Three or four little knobs seemed to 
grab at him and bite into his skull, 
but there was only a little pressure 
that faded. No pain. 

The doctor’s voice sounded dim- 
ly. "Everything all right, George?” 

And then, with no real warning, 
a layer of thick felt closed down all 
about him. He was disembodied, 
there was no sensation, no universe, 
only himself and a distant murmur 
at the very ends of nothingness tell- 
ing him something — telling him — 
telling him — 

He strained to hear and under- 




PROFESSION 



19 



stand but there was all that felt 
between. 

Then the helmet was taken off his 
head and the light was so bright that 
it hurt his eyes while the doctor’s 
voice drummed at his ears. 

The doctor said, "Here’s your 
card, George. What does it say?’’ 
George looked at his card again 
and gave out a strangled shout. The 
marks weren’t just marks at all. They 
made up words. They were words 
just as clearly as though something 
were whispering them in his ears. 
He could hear them being whispered 
as he looked at them. 

"What does it say, George?’’ 

"It says ... it says . . . 'Platen, 
George. Born 13 February 6492 of 
Peter and Amy Platen in — ’ ’’ He 
broke off. 

"You can read, George,” said the 
doctor. "It’s all over.” 

"For good? I won’t forget how?” 
"Of course not.” The doctor lean- 
ed over to shake hands gravely. 
"You will be taken home now.” 

It was days before George got 
over this new and great talent of 
his. He read for his father with such 
facility that Platen, Senior, wept and 
called relatives to tell the good news. 

George walked about town, read- 
ing every scrap of printing he could 
find and wondering how it was that 
none of it had ever made sense to 
him before. 

He tried to remember how it was 
not to be able to read and he could 
not. As far as his feeling about it 
was concerned, he had always been 
able to read. Always. 

20 



At eighteen, George was rather 
dark, of medium height, but thin 
enough to look taller. Trevelyan, 
who was scarcely an inch shorter, 
had a stockiness of build that made 
"Stubby” more than ever appropri- 
ate, but in this last year he had 
grown self-conscious. The nickname 
could no longer be used without 
reprisal. And since Trevelyan disap- 
proved of his proper first name 
even more strongly, he was called 
Trevelyan or any decent variant of 
that. As though to prove his man- 
hood further, he had most persistent- 
ly grown a pair of sideburns and a 
bristly mustache. 

He was sweating and nervous 
now, and George, who had himself 
grown out of "Jaw-jee” and into the. 
curt monosyllabic gutterality of 
"George” was rather amused by 
that. 

They were in the same large hall 
they had been in ten years before — ■ 
and not since. It was as if a vague 
dream of the past had come to sud- 
den reality. In the first few minutes, 
George had been distinctly surprised 
at finding everything seem smaller 
and more cramped than his memory 
told him; then he made allowance 
for his own growth. 

The crowd was smaller than it had 
been in childhood. It was exclusively 
male this time. The girls had another 
day assigned them. 

Trevelyan leaned over to say, 
"Beats me the way they make you 
wait.” 

"Red tape,” said George. "You 
can’t avoid it.” 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



Trevelyan said, "What makes you 
so tolerant about it?" 

"I’ve got nothing to worry about.” 

"Oh, brother, you make me sick. 
I hope you end up Registered 
Manure-Spreader just so I can see 
your face when you do.” His somber 
eyes swept the crowd anxiously. 

George looked about, too. It 
wasn’t cjuitc the system they used on 
the children. Matters went slower 
and instructions had been given out 
at the start in print — an advantage 
over the pre-Readers. The names 
Platen and Trevelyan were well 
down the alphabet still but this time, 
the two knew it. 

Young men came out of the 
education rooms, frowning anil un- 
comfortable, picked up their clothes 
and belongings, then went off to 
analysis to learn the results. 

bach, as he came out, would be 
surrounded by a clot of the thinning 
crowd. "How was it?’’ "Mow’d it 
feel?" "Whacha think ya made?” 
"Ya feel any different?’’ 

Answers were vague and noncom- 
mittal. 

George forced himself to remain 
out of those clots. You only raised 
your own blood pressure. Everyone 
said you stood the best chance if you 
remained calm. E\’en so, you could 
feel the palms of your hands grow 
cold. Funny, that new tensions came 
with the years. 

For instance, high-specialty pro- 
fessionals heading out for an Out- 
world were accompanied by a wife — 
or husband. It was important to keep 
the sex-ratio in good balance on all 



worlds. And if you were going out 
to a Grade A world, what girl would 
refuse you? George had no specific 
girl in mind yet; he wanted none. 
Not now! Once he made program- 
mer; once he could add to his name, 
Registered Computer Programmer, 
he could take his pick like a sultan 
in a harem. The thought excited 
him and he tried to put it away. 
Must stay calm. 

Trevelyan muttered, "What’s it 
all about anyway? First, they say 
it works best if you’re relaxed and 
at ease. Then they put you through 
this and make it impossible for you 
to be relaxed and at ease.” 

"Maybe that’s the idea. They’re 
separating the boys from the men 
to begin with. Take it ea,sy, Trev.” 
"Shut up.” 

George’s turn came. His name was 
not called. It appeared in glowing 
letters on the notice board. 

He waved at Trevelyan. "Take it 
easy. Don’t let it get you.” 

He was happy as he entered the 
testing chamber. Actually happy. 

The man behind the desk said, 
"George Platen?” 

For a fleeting instant, there was 
a razor-.sharp picture in George’s 
mind of another man, ten years 
earlier, who had asked the same 
question, and it was almost as though 
this were the same mati and he, 
George, had turned eight again as 
he had stepped across the threshold. 

But the man looked up and, ol 
course, the face matched that of the 
sudden memory not at all. The nose 



PROFESSION 



21 



was bulbous, the hair thin and 
stringy and the chin wattled as 
though its owner had once been 
grossly overweight and had reduced. 

The man behind the desk looked 
annoyed. "Well?” 

George came to Earth. "I’m 
George Platen, sir.” 

"Say so, then. I’m Dr. Zachary 
Antonelli, and we’re going to be in- 
timately acquainted in a moment.” 
He stared at small strips of film, 
holding them up to the light owlish- 

ly- 

George winced inwardly. "Very 
hazily, he remembered that other 
doctor — he had forgotten the name 
— staring at such film. Could these 
be the same? The other doctor had 
frowned and this one was looking 
at him now as though he were 
angry. 

His happiness was already just 
about gone. 

Dr. Antonelli spread the pages of 
a thickish file out before him now 
and put the films carefidly to one 
side. "It says here you want to be 
a Computer Programmer.” 

"Yes, doctor.” 

"Still do?” 

"Yes, sir.” 

"It’s a responsible and exacting 
position. Do you feel up to it?” 
"Yes, sir.” 

"Most pre-Educates don’t put 
down any specific profession. I be- 
lieve they are afraid of queering it.” 
"1 think that’s right, sir.” 

"Aren’t you afraid of that?” 

"I might as well be honest, sir.” 
Dr. Antonelli nodded, but with- 



out any noticeable lightening of his 
expression. "Why do you want to 
be a Programmer?” 

"It’s a responsible and exacting 
position as you said, sir. It's an 
important job and an exciting one. 
I like it and I think I can do it.” 
Dr. Antonelli put the papers 
away, and looked at George, sourl\'. 
He said, "How do you know you 
like it? Because you think you'll be 
snapped up by some Grade A 
planet?” 

George thought uneasily: He's 

trying to rattle you. Stay calm and 
stay frank. 

He said, "I think a Programmer 
has a good chance, sir, but even if 
I were left on Earth, I know I'd 
like it.” (That was true enough. I'm 
not lying, thought George.) 

"All right, how do you know?” 

1 le asked it as though he knew 
there were no decent answer and 
George almost smiled. He had one. 

He said, "I’ve been reading about 
Programming, sir.” 

"You’ve been whatT' Now the 
doctor looked genuinely astonished 
and George took pleasure in that. 

"Reading about it, sir. I bought 
a book on the subject and I've been 
studying it.” 

"A book for Registered Program- 
mers?” 

"Yes, sir.” 

"But you couldn’t understand it.” 
"Not at first. I got other books on 
mathematics and electronics. I made 
out all I could. I still don't know 
much, but I know enough to know 
I like it and to know I can make it.” 



22 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



(Even his parents had never found 
that secret cache of books or knew 
why he spent so much time in his 
own room or exactly what happened 
to the sleep he missed.) 

The doctor pulled at the loose 
skin under his chin. "What was your 
idea in doing that, son?” 

"I wanted to make sure I w'ould 
be interested, sir.” 

"Surely you know that being in- 
terested means nothing. You could 
be devoured by a subject and if the 
physierd make-up of your brain 
makes it more efficient for you to be 
something else, something else you 
will be. S'oii know that, don’t you?” 
"I’ve been told that," sahl George, 
cautiously. 

"Well, believe it. It’s true.” 
George said nothing. 

Dr. Antonelli said, "Or do you 
believe tliat studying some subject 
will bend the brain-cells in that 
direction, like that other theory that 
a pregnant woman need only listen 
to great music jscrsistently to make 
a composer of her child? Do you be- 
lieve that?” 

George flushed. That had certain- 
ly been in his mind. By forcing his 
intellect constantly in the desired 
direction, he had felt sure that he 
would be getting a head-start. Most 
of his coniidcnce had rested on ex- 
actly that point. 

"I never—’’ he began, and found 
no way of iinishing. 

"Well, it isn’t true. Good Lord, 
youngster, your brain pattern is fixed 
at birth. It can be altered by a blow 
hard enough to damage the cells, 



or by a burst blood vessel, or by a 
tumor, or by a major infection — 
each time, of course, for the worse. 
But it certainly can’t be affected by 
your thinking special thoughts?^ He 
stared at George thoughtfully, then 
said, "Who told you to do this?” 
George, now thoroughly disturb- 
ed, swallowed and said, "No one, 
doctor. My own idea.” 

"Who knew you were doing it 
after you started?” 

"No one. Doctor, I meant to do 
no wrong.” 

'Who said anything about 
w'rong? Useless is what I would say. 
Why did you keep it ‘to yourself?” 
"I ... I thought they’d laugh at 
me.” (lie thought abruptly of a re- 
cent exchange with Trevelyan. 
George had very cautiously broach- 
ed the thought, as of something 
merely circulating distantly in the 
very outermost reaches of his mind, 
concerning the poss'bility of learning 
something by ladling it into the 
mind by hand, so to speak, in bits 
and pieces. Trevelyan had hooted, 
"George, you’ll be tanning your own 
shoes next and weaving your own 
shirts.” He had been thankful then 
for his policy of secrecy.) 

Dr. Antonelli shoved the bits of 
film he had first looked at from 
position to position in morose 
thought. Then he said, "Let’s get 
you analyzed. This is getting me 
nowhere.” 

The wires went to George’s tem- 
ples. There was the buzzing. Again 
there came a sharp memory of ten 
yeairs ago. 



PROFESSION 



23 



George’s hands were clammy; his 
heart pounded. He should never 
have told the doctor about his secret 
reading. 

It was his vanity, he told himself. 
He had wanted to show how enter- 
prising he was, how full of initiative. 
Instead, he had showed himself su- 
perstitious and ignorant and aroused 
the hostility of the doctor. (He could 
tell the doctor hated him for a wise- 
guy on the make.) 

And now he had brought himself 
to such . a state of nervousness, he 
was sure the Analyzer would show 
nothing that made sense. 

He wasn’t aware of tlic moment 
when the wires were removed from 
his temples. The sight of the doctor, 
staring at him thoughtfully, blinked 
into his, consciousness and that was 
that; .the wires were gone. George 
dragged, himself together with a 
tearing effort. He had quite given 
up his ambitions to be a Program- 
mer. In. the space of ten minutes, it 
had all gone. 

He said, dismally. "I suppose no.^” 
"No what.^” 

''No .Programmer?” 

The doctor rubbed his nose and 
said,. ".You get your clothes and 
whatever belongs to you and go to 
Room 15-C. Your files will be wait- 
ing for you there. So will my re- 
port.”. , 

George said in complete surprise, 
'’Have,.! been Educated already? I 
thoughf .this was just to — ” 

Dr. A.ntonelli stared down at his 
desk. 1 "It will all be explained to 
you. You do as I say.” 



George felt something like panic. 
What was it they couldn’t tell him? 
He wasn’t fit for anything but Reg- 
istered Laborer. They were going to 
prepare him for that; . adjust him 
to it. 

He was suddenly certain of it 
and he had to keep from screaming 
by main force. 

He stumbled back to his place of 
waiting. Trevelyan was not there, 
a fact for which he would have been 
thankful if he had enough self-pos- 
session to be meaningfully aware of 
his surroundings. Hardly anyone 
was left, in fact, and the few who 
were looked as though they might 
ask him questions wer^ it not that 
they were too worn-out by (heir 
tail-of-the-alphabet waiting to buck 
the fierce, hot look of anger and 
hate he cast at them. 

What riglit liad /hey to be tech- 
nicians and he, liim.sclf, a laborer. 
Laborer! He was cer/d/iil 

He was led by a red-uniformed 
guide along the busy corridors, lined 
with separate rooms each containing 
its groups, here two, there five; the 
Motor Mechanics, the Construction 
Engineers, the Agronomists - There 
were hundreds of specialized profes- 
sions and most of them would be 
represented in this small town by 
one or two anyway. 

He hated them all just then; the 
Statisticians, the Accountants, the 
lesser breeds and the higher. He 
hated them because they owned their 
smug knowledge now, knew their 
fate, while he himself, empty still. 



24 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



had to face some kind of further 
red tape. 

He reached 15-C, was ushered in 
and left in an empty room. For one 
moment, his spirits bounded. Surely, 
if this were the Labor classification 
room, there would be dozens of 
youngsters present. 

A door sucked into its recess on 
the other side of a waist-high parti- 
tion and an elderly, white-haired 
man stepped out. He smiled and 
showed even teeth that were ob- 
viously false, but his face was still 
ruddy and unlined and his voice had 
vigor. 

He said, "Good evening, George. 
Our own sector has only one of you 
this time, I see.” 

"Only one?” said George, blank- 
ly- 

"Thousands over the Earth, of 
course. Thousands. You’re not 
alone.” 

George felt exasperated. He said, 
"I don’t understand, sir. What’s my 
classification? What’s happening?” 

"Easy, son. You’re all right. It 
could happen to anyone.” He held 
out his hand and George took it 
mechanically. It was warm and it 
pressed George’s hand firmly. "Sit 
down, son. I’m Sam Ellenford.” 

George nodded impatiently. "I 
want to know what’s going on, sir.” 

"Of course. To begin with, you 
can’t be a Computer Programmer, 
George. You’ve guessed that, I 
think.” 

"Yes, I have,” said George, bit- 
terly. "What will I be, then?” 

"That’s the hard part to explain, 



George.” He paused, then said with 
careful distinctness, "Nothing.” 
"What!” 

"Nothing!” \ 

"But what does that mean? Why 
can’t you assign me a profession?” 
"We have no choice in the matter, 
George. It’s the structure of your 
mind that decides that.” 

George went a sallow yellow. His 
eyes bulged. "There’s something 
wrong with my mind?” 

"There’s something about it. As 
far as professional classification is 
concerned, I suppose you can call 
it wrong.” 

"But why?” 

Ellenford shrugged. "I’m sure 
you know how Earth runs its educa- 
tional program, George. Practically 
any human being can- absorb practi- 
cally any body of knowledge, but 
each individual brain pattern is 
better suited to receiving some types 
of knowledge than others. We try to 
match mind to knowledge as well 
as we can within the limits of the 
quota requirements for each profes- 
sion.” 

George nodded. "Yes, I know.” 
"Every once in a while, George, 
we come up against a young man 
whose mind is not suited to receiv- 
ing a superimposed knowledge of 
any sort.” 

"You mean I can’t be Educated?” 
"That is what I mean.” 

"But that’s crazy. I’m intelligent. 
I can understand — ” He looked 
helplessly about as though trying to 
find some way of proving that he 
had a functioning brain. 



PROFESSION 



25 



"Don’t misunderstand me, please,” 
said Ellenford, gravely. "You’re in- 
telligent. There’s no question about 
that. You’re even above average in 
intelligence. Unfortunately that has 
nothing to do with whether the 
mind ought to be allowed to accept 
superimposed knowledge or not. In 
fact, it is almost always the intelli- 
gent person who comes here.” 

"You mean I can’t even be 
a Registered Laborer?” babbled 
George. Suddenly, even that was 
better than the blank that faced him. 
"What’s there to know to be a 
Laborer?” 

"Don’t underestimate llie Laborer, 
young man. There arc dozens of 
subclassifications and each variety 
has its own corpus of fairly detailed 
knowledge. Do you think there’s no 
skill in knowing the proper manner 
of lifting a weight? Besides, to be 
a Laborer, we must select not only 
minds suited to it, but bodies as 
well. You’re not the type, George, 
to last long as a Laborer.” 

George was conscious of liis slight 
build. He said, "But I’ve never 
heard of anyone without a profes- 
sion.” 

"There aren’t many,” conceded 
Ellenford. "And we protect them.” 

"Protect them?” George felt con- 
fusion and fright grow higher in- 
side him. 

"You’re a ward of the planet, 
George. From the time you walked 
through that door, w'e’ve been in 
charge of you.” And he smiled. 

It was a fond smile. To George it 
seemed the smile of ownership; the 

26 



smile of a grown man for a help- 
less child. 

He said, "You mean. I’m going 
to be in prison?” 

"Of course not. You will simply 
be with others of your kind.” 

Your kind. The words made a 
kind of thunder in George’s ear. 

Ellenford said, "You need special 
treatment. We’ll take care of you.” 

To George’s own horror, he burst 
into tears. Ellenford walked to the 
other end of the room and faced 
away as though in thought. 

George fought to reduce tlic 
agonized weeping to sobs and then 
to strangle those. He thought of his 
father and mother, of his friends, 
of Trevelyan, of his own shame 

He said, rcbclliously, "I learned 
to read.” 

"Everyone with a whole mind can 
do that. We’ve never found excep- 
tions. It is at this stage that we 
discover — exceptions. And when you 
learned to read, George, we were 
concerned about your mind-pattern. 
Certain peculiarities were reported 
even then by the doctor in charge.” 

"Can’t you try Educating me. You 
haven’t even tried. I'm willing to 
take the risk.” 

"The law forbids us to do that, 
George. But look, it will not be bad. 
We will explain matters to your 
family so they will not be hurt. At 
the place to which you’ll be taken, 
you’ll be allowed privileges. We’ll 
get you books and you can learn 
what you will.” 

"Dab knowledge in by hand,” 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



said George, bitterly. "Shred by 
shred. Then, when I die I’ll know 
enough to be a Registered Junior 
Office Boy, Paper Clip Division." 

"Yet I understand you’ve already 
been studying books.” 

George froze. He was struck 
devastatingly by sudden understand- 
ing, "'lliat's it.” 

'"What is?” 



"Th.il fellow 


Antonelli. 


He’s 


knifing me.” 






"No, George. 


You’re 


quite 



wrong.” 

"Don't tell me that.” George was 
in an astasy of fury. "That bum is 
selling me out because he thought 
I was a little too wise for him. I 
read books and tried to get a head- 
start toward Programming. Well, 
what do you want to sejuare things? 
Money? You won’t get it. I’m get- 
ting out of here and when I finish 
broadcasting this — ” 

He was screaming. 

Ellenford shook his head and con- 
tacted a signal. 

Two men entered on cat-feet and 
got on either side of George. They 
pinned his arms to his sides. One 
of them used an airspray hypodermic 
in the hollow of his right elbow 
and the hypnotic entered his vein 
and had an almost immediate effect. 

His screams cut off and his head 
fell forward. His knees buckled and 
only the men on either side kept 
him erect as he slept. 

They took care of George as they 
said they would; they were good to 
him and unfailingly kind — about 



the way, George thought, he him- 
self would be to a sick kitten he 
had taken pity on. x , 

They told him that he should sit 
up and take some interest in life; 
and then told him that most people 
who came there had the same atti- 
tude of despair at the beginning and 
that he would snap out of it. 

He didn’t even hear them. 

Dr. Ellenford himself visited him 
to tell him that his parents had been 
informed that he was away on spe- 
cial assignment. 

George muttered, "Do they 
know — ” 

Ellenford assured him at once, 
"We gave no details.” 

At first, George had refused to 
cat. 'I'hey fed him intravenously. 
They hid sharp objects and kept 
him under guard. Hali Omani came 
to be his roommate and his stolidity 
had a calming effect. 

One day out of sheer desperate 
boredom, George asked for a book. 
Omani, who himself read books con- 
stantly, looked up, smiling broadly. 
George almost withdrew the request 
then, rather than give any of them 
satisfaction, then thought: What do 
I care? 

He didn’t specify the book and 
Omani brought one on chemistry. 
It was in big print, with small words 
and many illustrations. It was for 
teen-agers. He threw the book vio- 
lently against the wall. 

That’s what he would be always 
— a teen-ager all his life. A pre- 
Educate forever and special books 
would have to be written for him. 



PROFESSION 



27 




He lay smoldering in bed, staring at 
the ceiling and after an hour had 
passed, he got up sulkily, picked up 
the book and began reading. 

It took him a week to finish it 
and then he asked for another. 

"Do you want me to take the first 
one back?’’ asked Omani. 

George frowned. There were 
tilings in tire book he had not 
understood, yet he was not so lost to 
shame as to say so. 

But Omani said, "Come to think 
of it, you’d better keep it. Books are 
meant to be read and reread.’’ 

It was that same day that he final- 
ly yielded to Omani’s invitation that 
he tour the place. He dogged at the 
Nigerian’s feet and took in his sur- 



roundings with quick hostile glances. 

The place was no prison certainly. 
There were no walls, no locked 
doors, no guards. But it was a prison 
that the inmates had no place 
to go outside. 

It was somehow good to see others 
like himself by the dozen. It was so 
easy to believe himself to be 
the only one in the world so — 
maimed. 

He mumbled, "How many people 
here anyway?’’ 

"Two hundred and five, George, 
and this isn’t the only place of the 
sort in the world. There are thou- 
sands.’’ 

Men looked up as he passed, 
wherever he went; in the gymna- 
sium, along the tennis courts; 
through the library — ^he had never 
in his, life imagined books could 
exist in such numbers, they were 
stacked, actually stacked, along long 
shelves. They stared at him curious- 
ly and he returned the looks savage- 
ly. At least they were no better than 



28 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



he; no call for them to look at him 
as though, he were some sort of 
curiosity. 

Most of them were in their twen- 
ties. George said, suddenly, "What 
happens to the older ones?” 

Omani said, "This place special- 
izes in the younger ones.” Then, as 
thougli he suddenly recognizeti an 
implication in George’s question that 
he had earlier missed, he shook his 
head gravely and said, "They’re not 
put out of the way^ if that’s what 
you mean. There are other Houses 
for older ones.” 

"Who cares?” mumbled George, 
who felt he was sounding too inter- 
ested and in danger of slipping into 
surrender. 

"You might. As you grow older, 
you will liiul your.self in a House 
with occupants of both sexes.” 

That surprised George somehow. 
"Women, too?” 

"Of course. Do you suppose 
women are immune to this sort of 
thing?” 

George thought of that with more 
interest and excitement tlian he had 
felt for anything since before that 
day when — He forced his thought 
away from that. 

Omani stopped at the doorway of 
a room that contained a small closed- 
circuit television set and a desk 
Computer. Five or six men sat about 
the television. Omani said, "This is 
a classroom.” 

George said, "What’s that?” 

"The young men in there are 
being educated. Not,” he added, 
quickly, "in the usual way.” 



"You mean they’re cramming it 
in bit by bit.” 

"That’s right. This is the ^ly 
everyone did it in ancient times.” 
This was what they kept telling 
him since he had come to the House, 
but what of it? Suppose tliere had 
been a day when mankind had not 
known the d'atherm-oven. Did that 
mean he should be satisfied to e.at 
meat raw in a world where others 
ate it cooked? 

He said, "What do they want to 
go through that bit by bit stuff?” 
"To pass the time, George, and 
because they’re curious.” 

"What good does it do them?” 
"It makes them happier.” 

George carried that thought to bed 
with him. 

The next day he said to Omani, 
ungraciously, "Can you get me into 
a classroom where I can find out 
something about programming.” 
Omani replied heartily, "Sure.” 

It was slow and he resented it. 
Why should someone have to ex- 
plain something and explain it 
again? Why should he have to read 
and reread a passage, then' stare at 
a mathematical relationship and not 
understand it at once. That wasn’t 
how other people had to be. 

Over and over again, he gave up. 
Once he refused to attend classes 
for a week. 

But always he returned. The offi- 
cial in charge, who assigned read- 
ing, conducted the television demon- 
strations and even explained difficult 



PROFESSION 



29 



passages and concepts, never com- 
mented on the matter. 

George was finally given a regular 
task in the gardens and took his 
turn in the various kitchen and 
cleaning details. This was represent- 
ed to him as being an advance, but 
he wasn’t fooled. The place might 
have been far more mechanized than 
it was, but they deliberately made 
work for the young men in order 
to give them the illusion of worth- 
while occupation, of usefulness. 
George wasn’t fooled. 

They were even paid small sums 
of money out of which they could 
buy certain specified luxuries or 
which they could put aside for a 
problematical use in a problematical 
old age. George kept his money in 
an open jar which he kept on a 
closet shelf. He had no idea how 
much he had accumulated. Nor did 
he care. 

He made no real friends though 
he reached the stage where a civil 
good day was in order. He even 
stopped brooding — or almost stop- 
ped — on the miscarriage of justice 
that had placed him there. He would 
go weeks without dreaming of An- 
tonelli, of his gross nose and wattled 
neck, of the leer with which he 
would push George into a boiling 
quicksand and hold him under till he 
woke screaming with Omani bend- 
ing over him in concern. 

Omani said to him on a snowy 
day in February, "It’s amazing how 
you’re adjusting.” 

But that was February, the thir- 
teenth to be exact, his nineteenth 

30 



birthday. March came, then April, 
and with the approach of May he 
realized he hadn’t adjusted at all. 

The previous May had passed un- 
regarded while George was still in 
his bed, drooping and ambitionless. 
This May was different. 

All over Earth, George knew, 
Olympics would be taking place and 
young men would be competing, 
matching their skills against one an- 
other in the fight for a place on a 
new world. There would be the 
holiday atmosphere, the excitement, 
the news reports, tlie self-contained 
recruiting agents from the worlds 
beyond space, the glory of victory 
or the consolations of defeat. 

How much of fiction dealt with 
these motifs; how much of his own 
boyhood excitement lay in following 
the events of Olympics from year to 
year; how many of his own 
plans — 

George Platen could not loiueal 
the longing in his voice. It was too 
much to suppress. He said, "Tomor- 
row’s the first of May. Olympics!” 

And that led to his first quarrel 
with Omani and to Omani’s bitter 
enunciation of the exact name of 
the institution in which George 
found himself. 

Omani gazed fixedly at George 
and said, distinctly, "A House for 
the Feeble-minded.” 

George Platen flushed. Feeble- 
minded ! 

He rejected it desperately. He 
said in a monotone, ‘Tm leaving.” 
He said it on impulse. His conscious 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



mind learned it first from the state- 
ment as he uttered it. 

Omani, who had returned to his 
book, looked up. "What?” 

George knew what he was saying 
now. He said it, fiercely, "I’m leav- 
ing.” 

"That’s ridiculous. Sit down, 
George, calm yourself.” 

"Oil, no. I'm here on a frame-up, 
I tell you. This doctor, Antonclli, 
took a dislike to me. It’s the sense 
of power these petty bureaucrats 
have. Cross them and they wipe out 
your life with a stylus mark on some 
card tile.” 

"Arc you back to that?” 

"And staying there till it’s all 
straightened out. I’m going to get 
to Antonclli somehow, break him, 
force the truth out of him.” George 
was breathing heavily and he felt 
feverish. Olympics Month was here 
and he couldn’t let it pass. If he 
did, it would be the final surrender 
and he would be lost for all time. 

Omani threw his legs over the 
side of his bed and stood up. He 
was nearly six feet tall and the ex- 
pression on his face gave him the 
look of a concerned St. Bernard. He 
put his arm about George’s shoulder, 
"If I hurt your feelings — ” 

George shrugged him off. "You 
just said what you thought was the 
truth, and I’m going to prove it 
isn't the truth, that’s all. Why not? 
The door’s open. There aren’t any 
locks. No one ever said I couldn’t 
leave. I’ll just walk out.” 

"All right, but where will you 
go?” 



"To the nearest air terminal, then 
to the nearest Olympics center. I’ve 
got money.” He seized the open jar 
that held the wages he had put away. 
Some of the coins jangled to the 
floor. 

"That will last you a week maybe. 
Then what?” 

"By then I’ll have things settled.” 

"By then you’ll come crawling 
back here,” said Omani, earnestly, 
"with all the progress you’ve made 
to do over again. You’re mad, 
George.” 

"Feeble-minded is the word you 
used before.” 

"Well, I’m sorry I did. Stay here, 
will you?” 

"Are you going to try to stop 
jnc?” 

Omani compressed his full lips. 
"No, I guess I won’t. This is your 
business. If the only way you can 
learn is to buck the world and come 
back with blood on your face, go 
ahead. Well, go ahead.” 

George was in the doorway now, 
looking back over his shoulder. "I’m 
going,” and came back to pick up 
his pocket grooming-set slowly. "I 
hope you don’t object to my taking 
a few personal belongings.” 

Omani shrugged. He was in bed 
again, reading, indifferent. 

George lingered at the door again, 
but Omani didn’t look up. 

George gritted his teeth, turned 
and walked rapidly down the empty 
corridor and out into the night- 
shrouded grounds. 

He had expected to be stopped 



PROFESSION 



81 



before leaving the grounds. He 
wasn’t. He had stopped at an all- 
night diner to ask directions to an 
air terminal and expected the propri- 
etor to call the police. That didn’t 
happen. He summoned a skimmer 
to take him to the airport and the 
driver asked n.o questions. 

Yet he felt no lift at that. He 
arrived at the airport sick at heart. 
He had not realized how the outer 
world would be. 1 le was surrounded 
by professionals. The diner’s propri- 
etor had had his name inscripted 
on the plastic shell over the cash 
register. So and so, Registered Cook. 
The man in the skimmer had his 
license up, Registered Chauffeur. 
George felt the bareness of his name 
and experienced a kind of nakedness 
because of it; worse, he felt skinned. 
But no one challenged him. No one 
studied him suspiciously and de- 
manded proof of professional rating. 

George thought bitterly: 'Who 

would imagine any human being 
without one? 

He bought a ticket to San Fran- 
cisco on the 3:00 a.m. plane. No 
other plane, for a sizable Olympics 
center was leaving before morning 
and he wanted to wait as little as 
possible. As it was, he sat huddled 
in' the waiting room, watching for 
the police. They did not come. 

He was in San Francisco before 
noon and the noise of the city struck 
him like a blow. This was the 
largest city he had ever seen and 
he had been used to silence and calm 
for a year and a half now. 

Worse, it was Olympics Month. 



He almost forgot his own predica- 
ment in his sudden awareness that 
some of the noise, excitement, con- 
fusion was due to that. 

The Olympics boards were up at 
the airport for the benefit of the 
incoming travelers and crowds jos- 
tled around each one. Each major 
profession had its own board. Each 
listed directions to the Olympics 
Hall where the contest for that day 
for that profession would be given; 
the individuals competing and their 
city of birth; the Outworld — if any 
— sponsoring it. 

It was a completely stylized thing. 
George had read descriptions often 
enough in the news-prints and films, 
watched matches on television and 
even witnessed a small Olympics in 
the Registered Butcher classification 
at the county .scat. Even that, which 
had no conceivable Galactic implica- 
tion — there was 'no Outworldcr in 
attendance, of course- -aroused ex- 
citement enough. 

Partly, the excitement was caused 
simply by the fact of competition, 
partly by the spur of local pride — 
oh, when there was a home-town 
boy to cheer for, tliough he might 
be a complete stranger — and, of 
course, partly by betting. There was 
no way of stopping the last. 

George found it difficult to ap- 
proach the board. He found him- 
self looking at the scurrying, avid 
onlookers in a new way. 

There must have been a time 
when they themselves were Olympic 
material. What had they done? 
Nothing ! 



32 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



If they had been winners, they 
would be far out in the galaxy some- 
where, not stuck here on Earth. 
Whatever they were, their profession 
must have made them Earth-bait 
from the beginning; or else they 
had made themselves Earth-bait by 
inefficiency at whatever high-special- 
ized profession they had. 

Now these failures stood about 
and speculated on the chances of 
newer and younger men. Vultures! 

Mow he wished they were specu- 
lating on him. 

I le moved down the line of 
boards blankly, dinging to the out- 
skirts of the groups about them. Me 
had eaten breakfast on the strato and 
he wasn't hungry. He was afraid, 
though. 1 le was in a big city during 
the confusion of the beginning of 
Olympics competition. That was 
protection, sure. The city was full 
of strangers. No one would ques- 
tion George. No one would care 
about George. 

No one woidd care. Not even the 
House, thought George bitterly. 
They cared for him like a sick kitten, 
but if a sick kitten up and wanders 
off, well, too bad, what can you 
do? 

And now that he was in San 
Francisco, what did he do? His 
thoughts struck blankly against a 
wall. See someone? Whom? How? 
Where would he even stay? The 
money he had left seemed pitiful. 

The first shamefaced thought of 
going back came to him. He could 
go to the police — ■ He shook his head 



violently as though arguing with a 
material adversary. 

A word caught his eye on one 
of the boards, gleaming there. 
Metallurgist. In smaller letters, non- 
ferrous. At the bottom of a long 
list of names, in flowing script, 
sponsored by Novia. 

It induced painful memories; 
himself arguing with, Trevelyan, 
so certain that he himself would be 
a Programmer, so certain that a 
Programmer was superior to a 
Metallurgist, so certain that he was 
following the right course, so cer- 
tain that he was clever — 

So clever that he had to boast to 
that small-minded, vindictive An- 
tonelli. He had been so sure of him- 
self that moment when he had been 
called and had left the nervous 
Trevelyan standing there, so cock- 
sure. 

George cried out in a short, in- 
coherent high-pitched gasp. Someone 
turned to look at him, then hurried 
on. People brushed past impatiently 
pushing him this way and that. He 
remained staring at the board, open- 
mouthed. 

It was as though the board had 
answered his thought. He was think- 
ing "Trevelyan” so hard that it had 
seemed for a moment that of course 
the board would say "Trevelyan” 
back at him. 

But that was Trevelyan, up there. 
And Armand Trevelyan — Stubby’s 
hated first name up in lights for 
everyone to see — and the right home- 
town. What’s more, Trev had want- 
ed Novia, aimed for Novia, insisted 



PROFESSION 



33 



on Novia; and this competition was 
sponsored by Novia. 

This had to be Trev; good old 
Trev. Almost without thinking, he 
noted the directions for getting to 
the place of competition and took 
his place in line for a skimmer. 

Then he thought somberly: Trev 
made it! He wanted to be a Metal- 
lurgist, and he made it! 

George felt colder, more alone 
thart ever. 

There was a line waiting to enter 
the hall. Apparently, Metallurgy 
Olympics was to be an exciting and 
closely-fought one. At least, the 
illuminated sky-sign above the hall 
said so, and the jostling crowd 
seemed to think so. 

It would have been a rainy day, 
George thought, from the color of 
the sky, but San Francisco had drawn 
the shield across its breadth from 
gulf to ocean. It was an expense to 
do so, of course, but all expenses 
were warranted where the comfort 
of Outworlders was concerned. They 
would be in town for the Olympics. 
They were heavy spenders. And for 
each recruit taken, there would be a 
fee both to Earth and to the local 
government from the planet spon- 
soring the Olympics. It paid to keep 
Outworlders in mind of a particular 
city as a pleasant place in which to 
spend Olympics time. San Francisco 
knew what it was doing. 

George, lost in thought, was sud- 
denly aware of a gentle pressure on 
his shoulder blade and a voice say- 

34 



ing, "Are you on line here, young 
man?” 

The line had moved up without 
George having noticed the widening 
gap. He stepped forward hastily and 
muttered, "Sorry, sir.” 

There was the touch of two fin- 
gers on the elbow of his jacket and 
he looked about furtively. 

The man behind him nodded 
cheerfully. He had iron-gray hair 
and under his jacket he wore an old- 
fashioned sweater that buttoned 
down the front. He said, "I didn’t 
mean to sound sarcastic.” 

"No offense.” 

"All right, then.” He sounded 
cozily talkative. "I wasn’t sure you 
might not simply be standing there, 
entangled with the line, so to speak, 
only by accident. I thought you 
might be a — -” 

"A what?” said George, sharply. 

"Why, a contestant, of course. 
You look young.” 

George turned away. He felt 
neither cozy nor talkative, and bit- 
terly impatient with busybodies. 

A thought struck him. Had an 
alarm been sent out for him? Was 
his description known, or his picture. 
Was Gray-hair behind him trying 
to get a good look at his face? 

He hadn’t seen any news reports. 
He craned his neck to see the mov- 
ing strip of news-headlines parading 
across one section of the city-shield, 
somewhat lackluster against the gray 
of the cloudy afternoon sky. It was 
no use. He gave up at once. The 
headlines would never concern 
themselves with him. This was 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



Olympics time and the only news 
worth headlining were the compara- 
tive scores of the winners and the 
trophies won by continents, nations 
and cities. 

It would go on like that for weeks, 
with scores calculated on a per capita 
basis and every city finding some 
way of calcu kiting itself into a posi- 
tion of honor. His own town had 
once placed third in an Olympics 
covering Wiring Tahnician; third 
in the whole state. 'Hicre was still a 
plaque saying so in Town Hall. 

George hunched his head between 
his shoulders and shoved his hands 
in his pocket and decided that made 
him more noticeable. He relaxed and 
tried to look unconcerned, and felt 
no safer. I le was in the lobby now 
and no authoritative hanil had yet 
been laid on his shoulder. He filed 
into the hall itself and moved as far 
forward as he could. 

It was with an unpleasant shock 
that he noticed Gray-hair next to 
him. He looked away cjuickly and 
tried reasoning with himself. The 
man had been right behind him in 
line after all. 

Gray-hair, beyond a brief and 
tentative smile, paid no attention to 
him and, besides, the Olympics was 
about to start. George rose in his 
scat to see if he could make out the 
position assigned to Trevelyan and 
at the moment that was his only con- 
cern. 

The hall was moderate in size and 
shaped in the classical long oval, 
with the spectators in the two bal- 



conies running completely about the 
rim and the contestants in the linear 
trough down the center. The ma- 
chines were set up, the progress 
boards above each bench were dark, 
except for the name and contest 
number of each man. The contestants 
themselves were on the scene, read- 
ing, talking together; one was check- 
ing his fingernails minutely. (It was, 
of course, considered bad form for 
any contestant to pay any attention 
to the problem before him until the 
instant of the starting signal.) 

George studied the program sheet 
he found in the appropriate slot in 
the arm of his chair and found 
Trevelyan’s name. His number was 
twelve and, to George’s chagrin, 
that was at the wrong end of the 
hall. He could make out the figure 
of contestant twelve, standing with 
his hands in his pockets, back to 
his machine, and staring at the 
audience as though he were counting 
the house. George couldn’t make 
out the face. 

Still, that was Trev. 

George sank back in his seat. He 
wondered if Trev would do well. 
He hoped, as a matter of conscious 
duty, that he would, and yet there 
was something within him that felt 
rebelliously resentful. George, pro- 
fessionless, here, watching. Trevel- 
yan, Registered Metallurgist, Non- 
ferrous, there, competing. 

George wondered if Trevelyan 
had competed in his first year. 
Sometimes men did, if they felt par- 
ticularly confident — or hurried. It 
involved a certain risk. However 



PROFESSION 



35 



efficient the educative process, a 
preliminary year on Earth — "oiling 
the stiff knowledge’’ as the expres- 
sion went — insured a higher score. 

If Trevelyan was repeating, may- 
be he wasn’t doing so well. George 
felt ashamed that the thought pleased 
him just a bit. 

He looked about. The stands were 
almost full. This would be a well- 
attended Olympics, which meant 
greater strain on the contestants — 
t>r greater drive^ perhaps, depending 
on the individual. 

Why Olympics, he thought sud- 
denly? He had never known. Wliy 
was bread called bread? 

Once he had asked his father: 
Why do they call it Olympics, Dad? 

And his father had said; Olympics 
means competition. 

George said; Is when Stubby and 
I fight an Olympics, Dad? 

Platen, Senior, said: No. Olympics 
is a special kind of competition and 
don’t ask silly questions. You’ll 
know all you have to know when 
you get educated. 

George, back in the present, 
sighed and crowded down into his 
seat. 

All you have to know! 

Funny that the memory should be 
so clear now. When you get edu- 
cated. No one ever said, if you get 
educated. 

He always asked silly questions, 
it seemed to him now. It was as 
though his mind had some instinc- 
tive foreknowledge of its inability 
to be Educated and had gone about 
asking questions in order to pick up 



scraps here and there as best it 
could. 

And at the House they encour- 
aged him to do so because they 
agreed with his mind’s instinct. It 
was the only way. 

He sat up suddenly. What the 
devil was he doing? Falling for 
that lie? Was it because Trev was 
there before him an Educee, com- 
peting in the Olympics that he him- 
self was surrendering? 

He wasn’t feeble-minded! No! 

And the shout of denial in liis 
mind was echoed by tlic sudden 
clamor in the audience as everyone 
got to his feet. 

The box seat in the very center 
of one long side of the oval was 
filling with an entourage wearing 
the colors of Novia, and the woi’d 
"Novia’’ went up above them on the 
main board. 

Novia was a Grade A world witli 
a large population and a thoroughly- 
developed civilization, perhaps the 
best in the galaxy. It was the kind 
of world that every Earthman want- 
ed to live in some day; or, failing 
that, to see his children live in. 
(George remembered Trevelyan’s 
insistence on Novia as a goal — and 
there he was competing for it, by 
God.) 

The lights went out in that sec- 
tion of the ceiling above the audi- 
ence and so did the wall-lights. The 
central trough, in which the con- 
testants waited, became flood-lit! 

Again George tried to make out 
Trevelyan. Too far. 



36 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



The dear, polished voice of the 
announcer sounded. "Distinguished 
Novian sponsors. Ladies. Gentlemen. 
The Olympics competition for Met- 
allurgist, Nonferrous, is about to 
begin. The contestants are — ” 

Carefully and conscientiously, he 
read oil the list in the program. 
Names. 1 lometowns. Educative year. 
Each name received its cheers; the 
San b'ranciscans among them receiv- 
ing the loudest. When Trevelyan’s 
name was reached, George surprised 
himself by shouting and waving 
madly, lire gray-haired man next to 
him surprised him even more by 
cheering likewise. 

George could not help but stare 
in astonishment and his neighbor 
leaned over to say — speaking loudly 
in order to be heard over the hub- 
bub — "No one here from my home- 
town; Ell root for yours. Someone 
you know.^’’ 

George shrank back. "No.” 

"I noticed you looking in that 
direction. Would you like to borrow 
my glasses?” 

"No. Thank you.” (Why didn’t 
the old fool mind his own busi- 
ness?) 

The announcer went on with other 
formal details concerning the serial 
number of the competition, the 
method of timing and scoring and 
so on. Finally, he approached the 
meat of the matter and the audience 
grew silent as it listened. 

"Each contestant will be supplied 
with a bar of nonferrous alloy of 
unspecified composition. He will be 
required to sample and assay tlie 



bar, reporting all results correctly to 
four decimals in per cent. All will 
utilize for this purpose, a Beeman 
Microspectrograph, Model FX-2, 
each of which is, at the moment, 
not in working order.” 

There was an appreciative shout 
from the audience. 

"Each contestant will be required 
to analyze the fault of his machine 
and correct it. Tools, and spare 
parts are supplied. The spare part 
necessary may not be present in 
which case it must be asked for and 
time of delivery thereof will be de- 
ducted from final time. Are all con- 
testants ready?” 

The board above Contestant Five 
flashed a frantic red signal. Con- 
testant Five ran off the floor and 
returned a moment later. The audi- 
ence laughed good-naturedly. 

"Are all contestants ready?” 

The boards remained blank. 

"Any c|uestions?” 

Still blank. 

"You may begin.” 

There was, of course, no way any- 
one in the audience could tell how 
any contestant was progressing ex- 
cept for whatever notations went up 
on the notice board. But then, that 
didn’t matter. Except for what pro- 
fessional metallurgists there might 
be in the audience, none would un- 
derstand anything about the contest 
professionally in any case. What 
was important was who won, who 
was second, who was third. For 
those who had bets on the standings 
— illegal, but unpreventable — that 

37 



PKOFESSION 



was all-important. Everything else 
might go hang. 

George watched as eagerly as the 
rest, glancing from one contestant 
to the next, observing how this one 
had removed the cover from his 
microspectrograph with deft strokes 
of a small instrument; how that one 
was peering into the face of the 
thing; how still a third was setting 
his alloy bar into its holder; and 
how a fourth adjusted a vernier with 
such small touches that he seemed 
momentarily frozen. 

Trevelyan was as absorbed as the 
rest. George had no way of telling 
how he was doing. 

The notice board over Contestant 
17 flashed: Focus-plate out of adjust- 
ment. 

The audience cheered wildly. 

Contestant 17 might be right and 
he might, of course, be wrong. If 
the latter, he would have to correct 
his diagnosis later and lose time. Or 
he might never correct his diagnosis 
and be unable to complete his analy- 
sis or, worse still, end with a com- 
pletely wrong analysis. 

Never mind. For the moment, the 
audience cheered. 

Other boards lit up. George 
watched for Board 12. That came on 
finally. "Sample-holder off-center. 
Nev/ clamp-depresser needed.” 

An attendant went running to him 
with a new part. If Trevelyan were 
wrong, it would mean useless delay. 
Nor would the time elapsed in wait- 
ing for the part be deducted. George 
found himself holding his breath. 

Results were beginning to go up 

£8 



on Board 17, in gleaming letters: 
aluminum, 41.2649; magnesium, 
22.1914; copper 10.1001. 

Here and there, other boards be- 
gan sprouting figures. 

The audience was in bedlam. 

George wondered how the con- 
testants could work in such pan- 
demonium, then wondered if that 
were not even a good thing. A first- 
class technician should work best 
under pressure. 

Seventeen rose from his place as 
his board went red-rimmed to sig- 
nify completion. Four was only two 
seconds behind him. Another, then 
another. 

Trevelyan was still working, the 
minor constituents of his alloy bar 
still unreported. With nearly all con- 
testants standing, Trevelyan finally 
rose, also. Then, tailing off. Five 
rose, and received an ironic cheer. 

It wasn’t over. Official announce- 
ments were naturally delayed. Time 
elapsed was something, but accuracy 
was just as important. And not all 
diagnoses were of equal difficulty. A 
dozen factors had to be weighted. 

Finally, the announcer’s voice 
sounded. "Winner in the time of 
four minutes and twelve seconds, 
diagnosis correct,- analysis correct 
within an average of zero point 
seven parts per hundred thousand, 
Contestant number ■ — ■ seventeen, 
Henry Anton Schmidt of . . .” 

What followed was drowned in 
the screiuning. Number Eight was 
next and then Four, whose good 
time was spoiled by a five-part in ten 
thousand error in the niobium figure. 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



Twelve was never mentioned. He 
was an also-ran. 

George made his way through the 
crowd to the Contestants’ Door and 
found a large clot of humanity ahead 
of him. There would be weeping 
relatives — joy or sorrow, depending 
■ — to greet them, newsmen to inter- 
view the top-scorers, or the home- 
town boys, autograph hounds, pub- 
licity seekers and the just plain curi- 
ous. Girls, too, who might hope to 
catch the eye of a top-scorer-, almost 
certainly headed for Novia — or per- 
haps a low-scorer who needed con- 
solation and had the cash to afford 
it. 

George hung back. He saw no one 
he knew. With San Francisco so far 
from home, it seemed pretty safe 
to assume that there would be no 
relatives to condole with Trev on the 
spot. 

Contestants emerged, smiling 
weakly, nodding at shouts of ap- 
proval. Policemen kept the crowds 
far enough away to allow a lane for 
walking. Each high-scorer drew a 
portion of the crowd off with him, 
like a magnet pushing through a 
mound of iron filings. 

When Trevelyan walked out, 
scarcely anyone was left. (George 
felt somehow that he had delayed 
coming out until just that had come 
to pass.) There was a cigarette in his 
dour mouth and he turned, eyes 
downcast, to walk off. 

It was the first hint of home 
George had had in what was almost 
a year and a half and seemed almost 

PROFESSION 




a decade and a half. He was almost 
amazed that Trevelyan hadn’t aged, 
that he was the same Trev he had 
last seen. 

George sprang forward. 

Trevelyan spun about, astonished. 
He stared at George and then his 
hand shot out. "George Platen, whai 
the devil — ’’ 

And almost as soon as the look of 
pleasure had crossed his face, it left. 
His hand dropped before George 
had quite the chance of seizing it. 

"Were you in there?’’ A curt jerk 
of Trev’s head indicated the hall. 

"I was.’’ 

"To see me?” 

"Yes.” 

"Didn’t do so well, did I?” He 
dropped his cigarette and stepped 
on it, staring off to the Street, where 
the emerging crowd was slowly 
eddying and finding its way into 
skimmers, while new lines were 
forming for the next scheduled 
Olympics. 

Trevelyan said, heavily, "So what? 
It’s only the second time I missed. 
Novia can go hang after the deal 
I got today. There are planets that 
would jump at me fast enough. But, 
listen, I haven’t seen you since 
Education day. Where did you go? 
Your folks said you were on special 
assignment but gave no details and 
you never wrote. You might have 
written.” 

"I should have,” said George, 
uneasily. "Anyway, I came to say I 
was sorry the way things went just 
now.” 

"Don’t be,” said Trevelyan. "I 



told you. Novia can go hang. At that 
I should have known. They’ve been 
saying for weeks that the Beeman 
machine would be used. All the 
wise money was on Beeman ma- 
chines. The education tapes they ran 
through me was for Henslers and 
who uses Henslers? The worlds in 
the Goman Cluster if you want to 
call them worlds. Wasn’t that a nice 
deal they gave me?” 

"Can’t you complain to — ” 

"Don’t be a fool, jerk. They’ll 
tell me my brain was built for 
Henslers. Go argue. Every! htrig went 
wrong. I was the only one who 
had to send out for a piece of 
equipment. Notice that?” 

"They deducted the time for that, 
though.” 

"Sure, but I lost time wondering 
if I could be right in my diagnosis 
when 1 noticed there wasn't .my 
clamp depresser in the parts (hey 
had supplied. They don’t dcduit lor 
that. If it had been a Hensler, I 
would have known I was right. How 
could I catch up then? The top win- 
ner was a San Franciscan. So were 
three of the next four. And (he 
fifth guy was from Los Angeles. 
They get big-city educational tapes. 
The best available. Beeman spectro- 
graphs and all. How do 1 compete 
with them? I came all the way out 
here just to get a chance at a 
Novian-sponsored Olympics in my 
classification and I might just as well 
have stayed home. I knew it, I tell 
you, and that settles it. Novia isn't 
the only chunk of rock in space. Of 
all the . . .” 



40 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



He wasn't speaking to George. 
He wasn’t speaking to anyone. He 
was just uncorked and frothing. 
George realized that. 

George said, "If you knew in ad- 
vance that the Beemans were going 
to be used, couldn’t you have studied 
up on them?’’ 

"They weren’t in my tapes, I tell 
you.’’ 

"You could have read — books.’’ 

The last word had tailed off under 
Trevelyan’s suddenly sharp look. 

Trevelyan said, "Are you trying 
to make a big laugh out of this? 
You think this is funny? How do 
you expect me to read some book 
and try to memorize enough to 
match someone else who knotvs.” 

"I thought — ’’ 

"You try it. You try — ’’ Then, 
suddenly, "What’s your profession, 
by the way?’’ He sounded thorough- 
ly hostile. 

"Well—’’ 

"Come on, now. If you’re going 
to be a wise guy with me, let’s see 
what you’ve ■ done. You’re still on 
Earth, I notice, so you’re not a Com- 
puter Programmer and your special 
assignment can't be much.’’ 

George said, "Listen, Trev, I’m 
late for an appointment.” He backed 
away, trying to smile. 

"No, you don’t,” Trevelyan reach- 
ed out fiercely, catching hold of 
George’s jacket. "You answer my 
question. Why are you afraid to tell 
me? What is it with you? Don’t 
come here rubbing a bad showing 
in my face, George, unless you can 
take it, too. Do you hear me?” 



He was shaking George in frenzy 
and they were struggling and sway- 
ing across the floor, when the 'Voice 
of Doom struck George’s ear in the 
form of a policeman’s outraged call. 

"All right now. All right. Break 
it up.” 

George’s heart turned to lead and 
lurched sickeningly. The policeman 
would be taking names, asking to see 
identity cards and George lacked 
one. He would be questioned and 
his lack of profession would show 
at once; and before Trevelyan, too, 
who ached with the pain of the 
drubbing he had taken and would 
spread the news back home as a salve 
for his own hurt feelings. 

George couldn’t stand that. He 
broke away from Trevelyan and 
made to run, but the policeman’s 
heavy hand was on his shoulder. 
"Hold on, there. Let’s see your 
identity card.” 

Trevelyan was fumbling for his, 
saying harshly, "I’m Armand Tre- 
velyan, Metallurgist, Nonferrous. I 
was just competing in the Olympics. 
You better find out about him, 
though, officer.” 

George faced the two, lips dry 
and throat thickened past speech. 

Another voice sounded, quiet, 
well-mannered. "Officer. One mo- 
ment.” - 

The policeman stepped back. 
"Yes, sir?” 

"This young man is my guest. 
What is the trouble?” 

George looked about in wild sur- 
prise. It was the gray-haired man 



PROFESSION 



41 



who had been sitting next to him. 
Gray-hair nodded benignly at 
George. 

Guest Was he mad? 

. Tlie policeman was saying, "These 
two were creating a disturbance, sir.” 

"Any criminal charges? Any dam- 
ages?” 

"No, sir.” 

"Well, then. I’ll be responsible.” 
He. presented a small card to the 
policeman’s view and the latter 
stepped back at once. 

Trevelyan began indignantly, 
"Hold on, now — ” but the police- 
man turned on him. 

"All right, now. Got any 
charges?” 

"I just-—” 

"On your way. The rest of you — 
move on.” A sizable crowd had 
gathered, which now, reluctantly, 
unknotted itself and raveled away. 

George let himself be led to a 
skimmer but balked at entering. 

He said, "Thank you, but I’m not 
your guest.” (Could it be a ridicu- 
lous case of mistaken identity?) 

But Gray-hair smiled and said, 
"You weren’t but you are now. Let 
me introduce myself,' I’m Ladislas 
Ingenescu, Registered Historian.” 

"But — -” 

"Come, you will come to no 
harm, I assure you. After all, I only 
wanted to spare you some trouble 
with a policeman.” 

"But why?” 

"Do you want a reason? Well, 
then, say that we’re honorary towns- 
mates, you and I. We both shouted 
for the same man, remember, and 

42 



we townspeople must stick together, 
even if the tie is only honorary. Eh?” 

And George, completely unsure 
of this man, Ingenescu, and of him- 
self as well, found himself inside 
the skimmer. Before he could make 
up his mind that he ought to get 
off again, they were off the 
ground. 

He thought confusedly: The man 
has some status. The policeman de- 
ferred to him. 

He was almost forgetting that his 
real purpose here in San Francisco 
was not to find Trevelyan but to 
find some person with enough in- 
fluence to force a re-appraisal of his 
own capacity of education. 

It could be that Ingenescu was 
such a man. And right in George’s 
lap. 

Everything could be working out 
fine — fine. Yet it sounded hollow 
in his thought. He was uneasy. 

During the short skimmer-hop, 
Ingenescu kept up an even flow of 
small-talk, pointing out the land- 
marks of the city, reminiscing about 
past Olympics he had seen. George, 
who paid just enough attention to 
make vague sounds during the 
pauses, watched the route of light 
anxiously. 

Would they head for one of the 
shield-openings and leave the city 
altogether ? 

No, they headed downward and 
George sighed his relief softly. He 
felt safer in the city. 

The skimmer landed at the roof- 
entry of a hotel and, as he alighted, 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



Ingenescu said, "I hope you’ll eat 
dinner with me in my room?” 

George said, "Yes,” and grinned 
unaffectedly. He was just beginning 
to realize the gap left within him 
by a missing lunch. 

Ingenescu let George eat in si- 
lence. Night closed in and the wall- 
lights went on automatically. 
(George thought: I’ve been on my 
own almost twenty-four hours.) 

And then over the coffee, In- 
genescu finally spoke again. He said, 
"You’ve been acting as though you 
tliink I intend you harm.” 

George reddened, put down his 
cup and tried to deny it, but the 
older man laughed and shook his 
head. 

"It’s so. I’ve been watching you 
closely since I first saw you and 
I think I know a great deal about 
you now.” 

George half -rose in horror. 

Ingenescu said, "But sit down. I 
only want to help you.” 

George sat down but his thoughts 
were in a whirl. If the old man 
knew who he was, why not have 
left him to the policeman? On the 
other hand, why should he volunteer 
help? 

Ingenescu said, "You want to 
know why I should want to help 
you? Oh, don’t look alarmed. I can’t 
read minds. It’s just that my training 
enables me to judge the little re- 
actions that give minds away, you 
see. Do you understand that?” 

George shook his head. 

Ingenescu said, “Consider my first 
sight of you. You were waiting in 



line to watch an Olympics, and 
your micro-reactions didn’t match 
what you were doing. The expres- 
sion of your face was wrong, the 
action of your hands was wrong. 
It meant that something, in general, 
was wrong, and the interesting thing 
was that, whatever it was, it was 
nothing common, nothing obvious. 
Perhaps, I thought, it was something 
of which your own conscious mind 
was unaware. 

"I couldn’t help but follow you, 
sit next to you. I followed you 
again when you left and eavesdrop- 
ped on the conversation between 
your friend and yourself. After that, 
well, you were far too interesting 
an object of study — I’m sorry if that 
sounds cold-blooded — for me to 
allow you to be taken off by a police- 
man. Now tell me, what is it that 
troubles you?” 

George was in an agony of in- 
decision. If this were a trap, why 
should it be such an indirect, round- 
about one? And he bad to turn to 
someone. He had come to the city 
to find help and here was help being 
offered. Perhaps what was wrong 
was that it was being offered. It 
came too easy. 

Ingenescu said, "Of course, what 
you tell me as a social scientist is 
a privileged communication. Do you 
know what that means?” 

"No, sir.” 

"It means, it would be dishonor- 
able for me to repeat what you say 
to anyone for any purpose. Moreover 
no one has the legal right to compel 
me to repeat it.” 



PROFESSION 



43 



George said, with sudden suspi- 
cion, "I thought you were an 
Historian.” 

"So I am.” 

"Just now you said you were a 
Social Scientist.” 

Ingenescu broke into loud laugh- 
ter and apologized for it when he 
could talk. "I’m sorry, young man, 
I shouldn’t laugh, and I wasn’t 
really_ laughing at you. I was laugh- 
ing at Earth and its emphasis on 
physical science, and the practical 
segments of it at that. I’ll bet you 
can rattle off every sub-division of 
construction technology or mechani- 
cal engineering and yet you’re a 
blank on social science.” 

"Well, then, what is social sci- 
ence?” 

"Social science studies groups of 
human beings and there are many 
high-specialized branches to it, just 
as there are to zoology. For instance, 
there are culturists, who study die 
mechanics of cultures, their growth, 
development and decay. Cultures,” 
he added, forestalling a question, 
"are all the aspects of a way of life. 
For instance it includes the way we 
make our living, the things we enjoy 
and believe, what we consider good 
and bad and so on. Do you under- 
stand ?” 

"I think I do.” 

"An Economist — not an Economic 
Statistician, now, but an Economist 
— specializes in the study of tlie way 
a culture supplies the bodily needs 
of its individual members. A Psy- 
chologist specializes in the individ- 

44 



ual member of a society and how lie 
is affected by the society. A Futurist 
specializes in planning the future 
course of a society, and an Histo- 
rian — That’s w'here I come in, 
now.” 

"Yes, sir.” 

"An Flistorian specializes in the 
past development of our own society 
and of societies with other cultures.” 

George found himself interested. 
"Was it different in the past?” 

"I should say it was. Until a 
thousand years ago, there was no 
Education; not what we call Educa- 
tion, at least.” 

George said, "I know. People 
learned in bits and pieces out of 
books.” 

"Why, how do you know this?” 

"I’ve heard it said,” said George 
cautiously. Tlien, "Is there any use 
in worrying about what’s happened 
long ago? I mean, it’s all done with, 
isn’t it?” 

"It’s never done with, my boy. 
The past explains the present. For 
instance, why is our educational sys- 
tem what it is?” 

George stirred restlessly. The man 
kept bringing the subject back to 
that. He said, snappishly, "Because 
it’s best.” 

"Ah, but why is it best? Now 
you listen to me for one moment and 
I’ll explain. Then you can tell me 
if there is any use in history. Even 
before interstellar travel was devel- 
oped — ” He broke off at the look of 
complete astonishment on George’s 
face. "Well, did you think we al- 
ways had it?” 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



"I never gave it any thought, sir.” 

'Tm sure you didn’t. But there 
was a time, four or five thousand 
years ago, when mankind was con- 
fined to the surface of Earth. Even 
then, his culture had grown quite 
technological and his numbers had 
increased to the point where any 
failure in technology would mean 
ifiass starvation and disease. To 
maintain the technological level and 
advance it in the face of an increas- 
ing population, more and more 
technicians and scientists had to be 
trained, and yet, as science advanced, 
it took longer and longer to train 
them. 

"As first interplanetary and then 
interstellar travel was developed, the 
problem grew more acute. In fact, 
aclual colonization of cxtra-SoIar 
planets was impossible for about 
lifteen hundred years because of a 
lack of properly trained men. 

"The turning point came when 
the mechanics of the storage of 
knowledge within the brain was 
worked out. Once that had been 
clone, it became possible to devise 
educational tapes that would modify 
the mechanics in such a way as to 
place within the mind a body of 
knowledge ready-made, so to speak. 
But you know about that. 

"Once that was done, trained men 
could be turned out by the thousands 
and millions and we could begin 
what someone has since called the 
Filling of the Universe. There are 
now fifteen hundred inhabited 
planets in the galaxy and there is no 
end in sight. 



"Do you see all that is involved? 
Earth exports education tapes for 
low-specialized professions and that 
keeps the galactic culture unified. 
For instance, the reading tapes in- 
sure a single language for all of 
us. Don’t look so surprised, other 
languages are possible, and in the 
past were used. Hundreds of them. 

"Earth also exports high-special- 
ized professionals and keeps its own 
population at an endurable level. 
Since they are shipped out in a 
balanced sex ratio, they act as self- 
reproductive units and help increase 
the populations on the Outworlds 
where an increase is needed. Further- 
more, tapes and men are paid for in 
material which we much need and 
on which our economy depends. 
Now do you understand why our 
Education is the best way?” 

"Yes, sir.” 

"Does it help you to understand, 
knowing that without it, interstellar 
colonization was impossible for fif- 
teen hundred years?” 

"Yes, sir.” 

"Then you see the uses of his- 
tory.” The Historian smiled. "And 
now I wonder if you see why Fm 
interested in you.” 

George snapped out of time and 
space back to reality. Ingenescu, ap- 
parently, didn’t talk aimlessly. All 
this lecture had been a device to 
attack him from a new angle. 

He said, once again withdrawn, 
hesitating, "Why?” 

"Social scientists work with soci- 

45 



PROFESSION 



eties and societies are made up of 
people.” 

"All right.” 

"But people aren’t machines. The 
professionals in physical science 
work with machines. There is only 
a limited amount to know about a 
machine and the professionals know 
it all. Furthermore, all machines of 
a given sort are just about alike so 
that there is nothing to interest them 
io any given individual machine. 
But people, ah — They are so com- 
plex and so different one from an- 
other, that a social scientist never 
knows all there is to know or even 
a good part of what there is to know. 
To understand his own specialty, he 
must always be ready to study peo- 
ple; particularly unusual specimens.” 
"Like me,” said George, tone- 
lessly. 

'T shouldn’t call you a specimen, 
I suppose, but you are unusual. 
You’re worth studying, and if you 
will allow me that privilege, then, 
in return, I will help you if you are 
in trouble and if I can.” 

There were pin wheels whirring 
in George’s mind. All this talk about 
people and colonization made pos- 
sible by Education. It was as though 
caked thought within him were 
being broken up and stored about 
mercilessly. 

He said, "Let me think,” and 
clamped his hands over his ears. 

He took them away and said to 
the Historian. "Will you do some- 
thing for me, sir?” 

"If I can,” said the Historian, 
amiably. 

46 



"And everything I say in this 
room is a privileged communication. 
You said so.” 

"And I meant it.” 

"Then get me an interview with 
an Outworld official; with . . . with 
a Novian.” 

Ingenescu looked startled. "Well, 
now — ■” 

"You can do it,” said George, 
earnestly. "You’re an important 
official. I saw the policeman’s look 
when you put that card in front of 
his eyes. If you refuse, I ... I won’t 
let you study me.” 

It sounded a silly threat in 
George’s own ears; one without 
force. On Ingenescu, however, it 
seemed to have a strong effect. 

He said, "That’s an impossible 
condition. A Novian in Olympics 
month — ” 

"All right, then, get me a Novian 
on the phone and I’ll make my 
own arrangements for an inter- 
view.” 

"Do you think you can?” 

"I know I can. Wait and see.” 

Ingenescu stared at George 
thoughtfully and then reached for 
the visiphone. 

George waited, half-drunk with 
this new outlook on the whole prob- 
lem and the sense of power it 
brought. It couldn’t miss. It couldn’t 
miss. He would be a Novian yet. 
He would leave Earth in triumph 
despite Antonelli and the whole 
crew of fools at the House for the — 
he almost laughed aloud — Feeble- 
minded. 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



George watched eagerly as the 
visiplate lit up. It would open up a 
window into a room of Novians, a 
window into a small patch of Novia 
transplanted to Earth. In twenty- 
four hours, he had accomplished 
that much. 

There was a burst of laughter as 
the ’plate unmisted and sharpened 
but for the moment no single head 
could be seen but rather the fast 
passing of the shadows of men and 
women, this way and that. A voice 
was heard, clear-worded over a 
background of babble. "Ingenescu? 
He wants me?” 

Then there he was, staring out 
of the ’plate. A Novian. A genuine 
Novian. (George had not an atom 
of doubt. There was something com- 
pletely Outworldly about him. Noth- 
ing that could be completely defined, 
or even momentarily mistaken.) 

He was swarthy in complexion 
with a dark wave of hair combed 
rigidly back from his forehead. He 
wore a thin black mustache and a 
pointed beard, just as dark, that 
scarcely reached below the lower 
limit of his narrow chin, but the 
rest of his face was so smooth it 
looked as though it had been de- 
pilitated permanently. 

He was smiling. "Ladislas, this 
goes too far. We fully expect to be 
spied on, within reason, during our 
stay on Earth, but mind-reading is 
out of bounds.” 

"Mind-reading, Honorable?” 

"Confess! You knew I was going 
to call you this evening. You knew 
I was only waiting to finish this 



drink.” His hand moved up into 
view and his eye peered through a 
small glass of a faintly violet liqueur. 
"I can’t offer you one. I’m 
afraid.” 

George, out of range of Inge- 
nescu’s transmitter, could not be 
seen by the Novian. He was relieved 
at that. He wanted time to compose 
himself and he needed it badly. It 
were as though he were made up 
exclusively of restless fingers, drum- 
ming, drumming — • 

But he was right. He hadn’t mis- 
calculated. Ingenescu ivas important. 
The Novian called him by his first 
name. 

Good! Things worked well. What 
George had lost on Antonelli, he 
would make up, with advantage, on 
Ingenescu. And some day, when he 
was in his own at last, and could 
come back to Earth as powerful a 
Novian as this one that could neg- 
ligently joke with Ingenescu’s first 
name and be addressed as "honor- 
able” in turn — when he came back, 
he would settle with Antonelli. He 
had a year and a half to pay back 
and he — 

He all but lost his balance on the 
brink of the enticing daydream and 
snapped back in sudden anxious 
realization that he was losing the 
thread of what was going on. 

The Novian was saying, ". . . 
Doesn’t hold water. Novia has a 
civilization as complicated and ad- 
vanced as Earth’s. We’re not Zeston, 
after all. It's ridiculous that we have 
to come here for individual tech- 
nicians.” 



PROFESSION 



47 



Ingenescu said, soothingly, "Only 
for new models. There is never any 
certainty that new models will be 
needed. To buy the educational 
tapes would cost you the same price 
as a thousand Technicians and how 
do you know you would need that 
many?” 

The Novian tossed off what re- 
mained of his drink and laughed. 
(It displeased George, somehow, 
that a Novian should be this 
frivolous. He wondered uneasily if 
perhaps the Novian ought not to 
have completed that drink, or even 
the one or two before that.) 

The Novian said, "That’s typical 
pious fraud, Ladislas. You know 
we can make use of all the late 



models we can get. I collected live 
Metallurgists lliis afternoon 

"I know,” said Ingenescu. "I was 
there.” 

"Watching me! Spying!” cried 
the Novian. "I’ll tell you what it 
is. I’he new-model Metallurgists I 
got differed from the previous model 
only in knowing the use of Beeman 
Spectrographs. The tapes couldn’t be 
modified that much, not that much” 
— he held up two fingers close to- 
gether — "from last year’s model. 
You introduce the new models only 
to make us buy and spend and come 
here hat in hand.” 

"We don’t make you buy.” 

"No, but you sell late-model tech- 
nicians to Landonum and so we have 




48 



.ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



to keep pace. It’s a merry-go-round 
you have us on, you pious Earthmen, 
but watch out, there may be an exit 
somewhere.” There was a sharp edge 
to his laugh, and it ended sooner 
than it should have. 

Ingenescu said, "In all honesty, I 
hope there is. Meanwhile, as to the 
purpose of my call — ” 

"That’s right, you called. Oh, 
well, I’ve said my say and I suppose 
next year there’ll be a new model 
of Metallurgist anyway for us to 
spend goods on, probably with a new 
gimmick for niobium assays and 
nothing else altered and the next 
year — But go on, what is it you 
want?” 

"I have a young man here to 
whom I wish you to speak.” 

"Oh?” The Novian looked not 
completely pleased with that. "Con- 
cerning what?” 

"I can’t say. He hasn’t told me. 
I'or that matter he hasn’t even told 
me his name and profession.” 

The Novian frowned. "Then why 
take up my time?” 

"He seems quite confident that 
you will be interested in what he has 
to say.” 

"I dare say.” 

"And,” said Ingenescu, “as a 
favor to me.” 

The Novian shrugged. "Put him 
on and tell him to make it short.” 
Ingenescu stepped aside and 
whispered to George, "Address him 
as ’Honorable.’ ” 

George swallowed with difficulty. 
This was it. 



George' felt himself going moist 
with perspiration. The thought had 
come so recently, yet it was in him 
now so certainly. The beginnings of 
it came when he spoke to Trevelyan, 
then everything fermented and bil- 
lowed into shape while Ingenescu 
had prattled, and then the Novian’s 
own remarks had seemed to nail it 
all into place. 

George said, "Honorable, I’ve 
come to show you the exit from the 
merry-go-round.” Deliberately, he 
adopted the Novian’s own metaphor. 

The Novian stared at him gravely. 
"'What merry-go-round?” 

"You yourself mentioned it, 
Honorable. The merry-go-round that 
Novia is on when you come to Earth 
to ... to get technicians.” (He 
couldn't keep his teeth from chatter- 
ing; from excitement, not fear.) 

The Novian said, "You’re trying 
to say that you know a way by 
which we can avoid patronizing 
Earth’s mental supermarket. Is that 
it?” 

"Yes, sir. You can control your 
own Educational system.” 

"Um-m-m. Without tapes?” 
"Y-yes, Honorable.” 

The Novian, without takinu his 
eyes from George, called out, "In- 
genescu, get into view.” 

The Historian moved to where he 
could be seen over George’s shoul- 
der. 

The Novian said, "What is that? 
I don’t seem to penetrate.” 

"I assure you solemnly,” said 
Ingenescu, "that whatever this is 
it is being done on the young man's 



PROFESSION 



49 



own initiative, Honorable. I have 
not inspired this. I have nothing to 
do with it.” 

"Well, then, what is the young 
man to you? Why do you call me 
on his behalf?” 

Ingenescu said, "He is an object 
of study, Honorable. He has value 
to me and I humor him.” 

"What kind of value?” 

"It’s difficult to explain; a matter 
of my profession.” 

The Novian laughed shortly. 
"Well, to each his profession.” He 
nodded to an invisible person or 
persons outside ’plate range. "There 
is a young man here, a protege of 
Ingenescu or some such thing, wlio 
will explain to us how to Educate 
without tapes.” He snapped his fin- 
gers, and another glass of pale 
liejueur appeared in his hand. "Well, 
young man?” 

The faces on the ’plate were 
multiple now. Men and women, 
both, crammed in for a view of 
George, their faces molded into 
various shades of amusement and 
curiosity. 

George tried to look disdainful. 
They were all, in their own way, 
Novians as well as the Earthman, 
"studying” him as though he were 
a bug on a pin. Ingenescu was sit- 
ting in a corner, now, watching him 
owl-eyed. 

Fools, he thoughtly tensely, one 
and all. But they would have to 
understand. He would make them 
understand. 

He said, "I was at the Meatllurgist 
Olympics this afternoon.” 

60 



"You, too?” said the Novian, 
blandly. "It seems all Earth was 
there.” 

"No, Honorable, but I was. I had 
a friend who competed and who 
made out very badly because you 
were using the Beeman machines. 
His education had included only the 
Henslers, apparently an older model. 
You said the modification involved 
v/as slight.” George held up two 
fingers close together in conscious 
mimicry of the other’s previous 
gesture. "And my friend liad known 
some time in advance that knowl- 
edge of the Beeman machines would 
be required.” 

"And what does tliat signify?” 

"It was my friend's lifelong am- 
bition to qualify for Novia. He al- 
ready knew the Henslers. He had 
to know the Beemans to qualify and 
he knew that. To learn about the 
Beemans would have taken just a 
few more facts, a bit more data, a 
small amount of practice perhaps. 
'With a life’s ambition riding the 
scale, he might have managed 
thi.s — ” 

"And where would lie have ob- 
tained a tape for the additional facts 
and data? Or has Education become 
a private matter for home study here 
on Earth?” 

There was dutiful laughter from 
the faces in the background. 

George said, "That’s why he 
didn’t learn. Honorable. He thought 
he needed a tape. He wouldn’t even 
try without one, no matter what the 
prize. He refused to try without a 
tape.” 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



"Refused, eh? Probably the type 
of fellow who would refuse to fly 
without a skimmer.’’ More laughter 
and the Novian thawed into a 
smile and said, "The fellow is 
amusing. Go on. I’ll give you an- 
other few moments.” 

George said, tensely, "Don’t think 
this is a joke. Tapes are actually bad. 
They teach loo much; they’re too 
painless. A man who learns that way 
doesn’t know how to learn any other 
way. He’s frozen into whatever posi- 
tion he's been taped. Now if a per- 
son weren’t given tapes but were 
forced to learn by hand, so to speak, 
from the start; why, then he’d get 
the habit of learning, and continue 
to learn. Isn’t that reasonable? Once 
he has the habit well-developed, he 
can be given just a small amount of 
tape-knowledge, perhaps, to fill in 
gaps or fix details. 'Then he can 
make further progress on his own. 
You can make Bceman metallurgists 
out of your own Hcnsler metallur- 
gists in that way and not have to 
come to liarth for new models.” 
'I'he Novian nodded and sipped at 
his drink. "And where does every- 
one get knowledge without tapes? 
h'rom interstellar vacuum?” 

"From books. By studying the in- 
struments themselves. By thinking.” 
"Books? How docs one under- 
stand books without Education?” 
"Books are in words. Words can 
be understood for the most part. 
Specialized words can be explained 
by the technicians you already have.” 



"What about reading? Will you 
allow reading tapes?” 

"Reading tapes are all right, I 
suppose, but there’s no reason you 
can’t learn to read the old way, too. 
At least in part.” 

The Novian said, "So that you can 
develop good habits from the start?” 
"Yes, yes,” George said gleefully. 
The man was beginning to under- 
stand. 

"And what about mathematics?" 
"That’s the easiest of all, sir . . . 
Honorable. Mathematics is different 
from other technical subjects. It 
starts with certain simple principles 
and proceeds by steps. You can start 
with nothing and learn. It’s practical- 
ly designed for that. Then, once you 
know the proper types of mathemat- 
ics, other technical books become 
quite understandable. Especially if 
you start with easy ones.” 

"Are there easy books?” 
"Definitely. Even if there weren’t, 
the technicians you now have can 
try to write easy books. Some of 
them might be able to put some of 
their knowledge into words and 
symbols.” 

"The young devil has an answer 
for everything,” said the Novian to 
the men clustered about him. 

"I have. I have,” shouted George. 
"Ask me.” 

"Have you tried learning from 
books yourself? Or is this just theory 
with you?” 

George turned to look quickly at 
Ingenescu, but the Historian was 
passive. There was no sign of any- 
thing but gentle interest in his face. 



PROFESSION 



51 



George said, "I have.” 

"And do you find it works?” 
"Yes, Honorable,” said George, 
eagerly. "Take me with you to 
Novia. I can set up a program and 
direct — ” 

"Wait, I have a few more ques- 
tions. How long would it take, do 
you suppose, for you to become a 
Metallurgist capable of handling a 
Beeman macliine, supposing you 
started from nothing and did not 
use Educational tapes?” 

George hesitated. "Well . . . years, 
perhaps.” 

"Two years? Five? Ten?” 

"I can’t say. Honorable.” 

"Well, there’s a vital question to 
which you have no answer, have 
you? Shall we say five years? Does 
that sound reasonable to you?” 

"I suppose so.” 

"All right. We have a technician 
studying metallurgy according to this 
method of yours for five years. He’s 
no good to us during that time, 
you’ll admit, but he must be fed 
and housed and paid all that time.” 
"But — ” 

"Let me finish. Then when he’s 
done and can use the Beeman, five 
years have passed. Don’t you sup- 
pose wedl have modified Beemans 
then which he won’t be able to 
use?” 

"But by then he’ll be expert on 
learning. He could learn the new 
details necessary in a matter of 
days.” 

"So you say. And suppose this 
friend of yours, for instance, had 
studied up on Beemans on his own 

52 



and managed to learn it; would he 
be as expert in its use as a competi- 
tor who had learned it off the tapes?” 
"Maybe not — ” began George. 
"Ah,” said the Novian. 

"Wait, let me finish. Even if he 
doesn’t know something as well; it’s 
the ability to learn further that’s im- 
portant. He may be able to think up 
things, new things that no tape- 
Educated man would. You’ll have a 
reservoir of original thinkers — ” 
"In your studying,” said the 
Novian, "have you thought up any 
new things?” 

"No, but I’m just one man and 
I haven’t studied long — ” 

"Yes. Well, ladies, gentlemen, 
have we been sufficiently amu.sed?” 
"Wait,” cried George, in sudden 
panic. "I want to arrange a personal 
interview. 'J’hece are things I can’t 
explain over the visiphonc. d'herc 
are details — ” 

The Novian looked past George. 
"Ingenescu! I think I have done 
you your favor. Now, really, I have 
a heavy schedule tomorrow. Be 
well!” 

The screen went blank. 

George’s hands shot out toward 
the screen, as though in a wild im- 
pulse to shake life back into it. He 
cried out, "He didn’t believe me. 
He didn’t believe me.” 

Ingenescu said, "No, George. Did 
you really think he would?” 

George scarcely heard him. "But 
why not? It’s all true. It’s all so 
much to his advantage. No risk. I 
and a few men to work with — 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



A dozen men training for years 
would cost less than one technician. 
He was drunk! Drunk! He didn’t 
understand.” 

George looked ^bout breathlessly. 
"How do I get to him? I’ve got to. 
This was wrong. Shouldn’t have 
used the visiphone. I need time. 
Face to face. How do I — ” 

Ingenescu said, "He won’t sec 
you, George. And if he did, he 
wouldn’t believe you.” 

"He will, I tell you. When he 
isn’t drinking. He — •” George turned 
squarely toward the Historian and 
his eyes widened. "Why do you call 
me George?” 

"Isn’t that your name? George 
Platen?” 

"You know me?” 

"All about you.” 

George was motionless except for 
the breath pumping his chest wall 
up and down. 

Ingenescu said, "I want to help 
you, George. I told you that. I’ve 
been studying you and I want to 
help you.” 

George screamed, "I don’t need 
help. I’m not feeble-minded. The 
whole world is, but I’m not.” He 
whirled and dashed madly for the 
door. 

He flung it open and two police- 
men roused themselves suddenly 
from their guard duty and seized 
him. 

For all George’s straining, he 
could feel the hypo-spray at the 
fleshy point just under the corner of 
his jaw, and that was it. The last 
thing he remembered was tlie face 



of Ingenescu, watching with gentle 
concern. 

George opened his eyes to the 
whiteness of a ceiling. He remem- 
bered what had happened. He re- 
membered it distantly as though it 
had happened to somebody else. He 
stared at the ceiling till the white- 
ness filled his eyes and washed his 
brain clean, leaving room, it seemed, 
for new thoughts and new ways of 
thinking. 

He didn’t know how long he lay 
there so, listening to the drift of 
his own thinking. 

There was a voice in his ear. "Are 
you awake?” 

And George heard his own moan- 
ing for the first time. Had he been 
moaning? He tried to turn his 
head. 

The voice said, "Are you in pain, 
George?” 

George whispered, "Funny. I was 
so anxious to leave Earth. I didn’t 
understand.” 

"Do you know where you are?” 

"Back in the . . . the House.” 
George managed to turn. The voice 
belonged to Omani. 

George said, "It’s funny I didn’t 
understand.” 

Omani smiled gently, "Sleep 
again — ” 

George slept. 

And woke again. His mind was 
clear. 

Omani sat at the bedside reading, 
but he put down the book as 
George’s eyes opened. 



PROFESSION 



53 



George struggled to a sitting posi- 
tion. He said, "Hello." 

“Are you hungry?” 

"You bet.” He stared at Omani 
curiously. "I was followed when I 
left, wasn’t I?” 

Omani nodded. "You were under 
observation at all times. We were 
going to maneuver you to Antonelli 
and let you discharge your aggres- 
sions. We felt that to be the only 
way you could make progress. Your 
emotions were clogging your ad- 
vance.” 

George said, with a trace of em- 
barrassment, "I was all wrong about 
him.” 

"It doesn’t matter now. When you 
stopped to stare at the Metallurgy 
notice board at the airport, one of 
our agents reported back the list of 
names. You and I had talked about 
your past sufficiently so that I caught 
the significance of Trevelyan’s name 
there. You asked for directions to 
the Olympics; there was the possibil- 
ity that this might result in the kind 
of crisis we were hoping for; we 
sent Stanislas Ingenescu to the hall 
to meet you and take over.” 

"He's an important man in the 
government, isn’t he?” 

"Yes, he is.” 

“And you had him take over. It 
makes me sound impartant.” 

"You are important, George.” 

A thick stew had arrived, steam- 
ing, fragrant. George grinned wolf- 
ishly and pushed his sheets back to 
free his arms. Omani helped arrange 
the bed table. For a while, George 
ate silently. 

54 



Then George said, "I woke up 
here once before just for a short 
time.” 

Omani said, "I know. I was 
here.” 

"Yes, I remember. You know, 
everything was changed. It was as 
though I was too tired to feel emo- 
tion. 1 wasn’t angry any more. 1 
could just think. It was as though 
I had been drugged to wipe out 
emotion.” 

“You weren’t,” .said Omani. "Just 
sedation. You had rested.”. 

"Well, anyway, it was all clear 
to me as though 1 had known it 
all the time but wouldn’t listen to 
myself. 1 thought: What was it 1 had 
wanted Novia to let me do?T had 
wanted to go to Novia and take a 
batch of unEducated youngsters and 
teach them out of books. I had want- 
ed to establish a House for the 
Feeble-minded. Like here and Earth 
already has them - -many of them.” 

Omani’s white teeth gleamed as 
he smiled. "The Institute of Higher 
Studies is the correct name for places 
like this.” 

“Now I see it,” said George, "so 
easily I am amazed at my blindness 
before. After all, who invents the 
new instrument models that rec]uire 
new-model technicians? Who invent- 
ed the Beeman spectrographs, for 
instance? A man called Beeman, I 
suppose, but he couldn’t have been 
tape-Educated or how could he have 
made the advance?” 

“Exactly.” 

"Or who makes Educational 
tapes? Special tape-making techni- 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



cians? Then who makes the tapes to 
train theml More advanced techni- 
cians? Then who makes the tapes — 
You see what I mean. Somewhere 
there has to be an end. Somewhere 
there must be men and women with 
the capacity for original thought.” 

"Yes, George.” 

George leaned back, stared over 
Omani’s head and for a moment, 
there was the return of something 
like restlessness to lus eyes. "Why 
wasn’t I told all this at the begin- 
ning?” 

"Oh, if we could,” said Omani, 
"the trouble it would save us. We 
can analyze a mind, George, and 
say this one will make an adequate 
architect and that one a good wood- 
worker. We know of no way of 
detecting the capacity for original, 
creative thought. It is too subtle a 
tiling. We have some rule-of-thumb 
methods that mark out individuals 
who may possibly or potentially have 
siuli a talent. 

"On Reading Day, such individ- 
uals are reported. You were, for in- 
stance. Roughly speaking, the num- 
ber so reported comes to one in ten 
thousand. By the time Education 
Day arrives, these individuals are 
checked again and nine out of ten 
of them turn out to have been false 
alarms. Those who remain are sent 
to places like these.” 

George said, "Well, what’s wrong 
with telling people that one out 
of ... of a hundred thousand will 
end at places like these? Then it 
won’t be such a shock to those who 
do.” 



"And those who don’t? The 
ninety-nine thousand nine-hundred 
and ninety-nine that don’t? We can’t 
have all those people considering 
themselves failures. 'They aim at the 
professions and one way or another 
they all make it. Everyone can place 
after his or her name: Registered, 
something-or-other. In one fashion 
or another every individual has his 
or her place in society and this is 
necessary.” 

"But we?” said George, "The one 
in ten thousand exception?” 

"You can’t be told. That’s exactly 
it. It’s the final test. Even after we’ve 
Ihinned out the possibilities on Edu- 
cation Day, nine out of ten of those 
who come here are not quite the 
material of creative genius, and 
there’s no way we can distinguish 
those nine from the tenth that we 
want by any form of machinery. The 
tenth one must tell us himself.” 

"How?”, 

"We bring you here to a House 
for the Feeble-minded and the man 
who won’t accept that is the man we 
want. It’s a method that can be cruel, 
but it works. It won’t do to say to a 
man. 'You can create. Do so.’ It is 
much safer to wait for a man to say, 
'I can create, and I will do so 
whether you wish it or not.’ There 
are ten thousand men like you, 
George, who support the advancing 
technology of fifteen hundred 
worlds. We can’t allow ourselves to 
miss one recruit to that number or 
waste our efforts on one member 
who doesn’t measure up.” 



PROFESSION 



55 



George pushed his empty plate out 
of the way and lifted a cup of coffee 
to his lips. 

"What about the people here who 
don’t measure up.^ How do you 
handle them?” 

"They are taped eventually and 
become our social scientists. In'ge- 
nescu is one. I am a Registered Psy- 

THE 



IN TIMES 



chologist. We are second echelon, 
so to speak.” 

George finished his coffee. He 
said, "I still wonder about one 
thing.” 

"What is that?” 

George threw aside the sheet and 
stood up. "Why do they call them 
Olympics?” 

END 



TO COME 



Next month "Brake” is the lead novelette — a story by Poul Anderson. 
Achieving escape velocity for Earth is at the moment the big problem in 
spaceship design. But like most anything else too much of a good thing 
can be distinctly an acute danger. And there is nothing like three or four 
violent dissident groups aboard a single spaceship to make a problem as 
big as the whole solar system ! 

Murray Leinster has the other novelette — "Med Service.” It’s a bit of a 
problem right now to see to it that small outlying communities have 
adequate medical service. But what do you do when there is a galaxy of 
small outlying planets? And such unusual and interesting diseases. . . . 

I don’t ordinarily mention the items for the month after next, but 
starting in the September issue will be Bob Heinlein’s new novel. 
Since you’ll forget this item before you reach the end of the yarn I’ll 
mention that Thorby was born to be a slave — even though you won’t 
believe that when you finally discover where he was born. But you’ll meet 
him first being sold at auction in the slave market. Being sold to a one-eyed, 
one-legged beggar since no one wants the filthy little brat. . . . 

The Editor. 



56 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



RUN 

OF THE MILL 

The most effective type of 
superman is apt to be the one 
you can’t notice is super. No 
muss, no fuss... just results 
because you didn’t know it 
could happen that way. . . . 

BY ROBERT SILVERBERG 

Illustrated by Freas 

Dave Tobias sat by the computer, 
lisk’iiin,i> to its metallic chattering 
aiul mumbling, lie watched the yel- 
lowisli tape extruding painfully inch- 
by-inch from the response tray, tak- 
ing note of its length while carefully 
ignoring its neatly-typed message. 

He knew what it was going to 
say. A man didn’t need a computer 
to tell him that he wasn’t able to 
handle a situation. Tobias knew that 
he and his friends and the whole 
planet of Dariak I rolled into a 
shiny helix couldn’t handle the situ- 
ation. The computer’s cold analysis 
of the factors involved would only 
put the lid on the problem. 

"How’s it coming, Dave?” a 




RUN OF THE MILL 



67 



quiet voice said from behind him. 
"Is the answer here yet?” 

Tobias turned and saw the dark- 
skinned features of Claude Culver, 
the current holder of the sinecure 
that was Dariak’s presidency. Culver 
was a tall, well-fleshed man in his \ 
early forties who wore the usual ' 
morning costume, leather sandals 
and a bright strip of cloth around 
his wai,st. 

"The answer’s on the way,” To- 
bias said. He pointed to the eight 
inches of protruding tape. "It won’t 
be long before we’ll get it.” 

Culver locked his thick h.ands to- 
gether and leaned against the wall. 
"Will your machine tell us why the 
Lodarians found it necessary to land 
here and carry off half a village?” 
"No,” Tobias said. "You know 
that. The computer won't even tell 
you how to get our people back, or 
where we’re going to find them. 
That’s two or three steps ahead of 
ourselves.” He stood up and faced 
Culver squarely. "Claude, I know 
you expected miracles from me — 
but you’re not going to get them.” 
"What do you mean by that?” 

"I mean that I didn’t bother with 
any of the questions you and the 
Council gave me for the computer. 

I started with a much more basic 
question.” He took a slip of paper 
from the gold-chased blackwood 
table that served as his desk and 
handed it to Culver. "Here. This 
is the question, exactly as I wrote 
it. I also integrated it myself and 
fed it to the machine myself. Read 
it,, why don’t you?” 

58 



Culver looked blankly at the 
cyber technician for a moment, then 
accepted the slip. He read it out 
loud. 

" 'Question: Are we capable of 
dealing with the Lodarians by our- 
selves ? 

" 'Subquestion: Assuming a nega- 
tive answer for the former, is it de- 
sirable for us to obtain aid in this 
matter elsewhere?' ” 

Culver let the paper slide to the 
floor. A frown crossed his tannetl, 
placid face. "What’s the idea of this, 
Dave?” 

Tobias shrugged. "I’m lazy,” he 
said, grinning. "It seemed like a 
good idea to check this particular 
point before we go any further into 
the matter.” 

The two men stared silently at 
each other for a few seconds. Tlic 
droning of a large rainbow-colored 
insect distracted them, and Tobias 
swiped perfunctorily at the creature 
as it swooped around the room, lit 
briefly on the shining chrome- 
vanadium surface of the relay bank, 
and shot through the open window 
again. 

The computer continued its steady 
chukk-chukk while the data 'I'obias 
had so painstakingly fed into it 
during the past week whirled and 
danced within it. Minutes passed. 
At last came the final cough that 
signaled the completion of a run, 
and the noise ceased. 

Culver reached for the tape, but 
Tobias got to it first. "Uh-uh, 

ASTOUNDING SCflitNCE FICTION 



Claude. This is my baby, and I want 
first look. ” 

He scanned the tape, smiled 
wanly, and handed it to Culver. 
"Here. Read it now, and execute 
me afterward.” 

Culver read. 

" 'Answer: In view of known 
personality characteristics of domi- 
nant psych-type of Dariak I, of 
known aggressive actions of Lodari- 
ans, and of unknown personality 
characteristics of Lodarians, the 
probability is not high that Dariak 
contact with Lodarians will prove 
SLiccesslul. 

" 'Answer to Subquestion: Sug- 
gested procedure is for Dariak I to 
obtain aid in negotiation through 
customary channels. If this dispute 
is handled by an Earthman negotia- 
tor, probability of success is in- 
creased by a factor of four.’ ” 

Culver looked up and stared 
angrily at Tobias. "You knew this 
was coming, didnt you.^” 

Tobias nodded. 

"What am I supposed to do 
now?” Culver asked pathetically. 
"Go outside and tell everybody that 
we’re no good, that we’re too dumb 
to deal with the Lodarians ourselves, 
that we’re going to have to hire a 
. . . an EarthmanT' 

"I guess that’s what you’ll have 
to do,” Tobias said mildly. "Since 
you’ve been in office, you’ve been 
pretty honest, Claude. Why stop 
now?” 

Culver scowled, drew his breech- 
cloth tighter around his middle, and 
left. Tobias remained seated for a 



while, toying with an unlit cigarette. 
He never smoked in the computer 
room, but the feel of the tube of 
tobacco between his fingers some- 
how lessened the tension. 

The news would be a bitter pill 
for the people of Dariak to swallow 
— but they would manage to get it 
down, and everyone would feel so 
unhappy that Culver would declare 
a national half-holiday and everyone 
would go swimming and surf board- 
ing. By evening, all would be well, 
and the request would go flashing 
out across space for an Earthman to 
come and save the day. 

That was the way it would be,’ 
Tobias thought. No one would be 
particularly distressed by this naked 
indictment of his planet’s spineless- 
ness, exactly because it was sijch a 
spineless planet. 

Outside, the great yellow ball of 
a sun was climbing toward noon 
height, and through his window 
Tobias saw birds with radiant green- 
and-red plumage slicing through the 
warm air. Dariak was a good place 
to live — a perpetual vacation land 
where no one worked too hard, 
where no one ever lacked, and 
where no one had very much calcium 
in his lumbar vertebrae. 

"Which was why, when strangers 
descended from the cloudless sky to 
cause trouble, the good folk of 
Dariak found it necessary to run 
back to Mother Earth for help. 

The Council met, the Council 
heard Culver’s story, and the Coun- 
cil was outraged. 



EUN OF THE MILL 



59 



The Council also — after half an 
hour of relatively vigorous debate 
— voted unanimously to call in an 
Earthman to deal with the Lodarians, 
and assigned Dave Tobias the job 
of finding one. \ 

"Why me?” Tobias asked, after 
Culver outlined the happenings in 
the council room to him. 

Culver smiled wistfully and said, 
'.'It was the opinion of the meeting 
that you’re the one who understands 
more of this situation than any of 
the rest of us. And therefore you’re 
the one who ought to talk to some- 
one in the Colonial Office and get 
help for us.” 

Tobias thought about it for a 
moment, then nodded. "If that’s the 
way you want it, that’s the way it’ll 
be, Claude. Tell one of your sub- 
radio boys to get me a hookup with 
Earth, and I'll do the job.” He 
snickered. "You’re really proving my 
point, you know. You can’t even 
handle a phone conversation by 
yourselves.” 

"Don’t be crude,” Culver said. 
"We’re asking you for a favor, be- 
cause we know you’re a little more 
aggressive than the rest of us. Don’t 
take advantage of it, Dave.” 

Tobias smiled at the older man. 
"I’m sorry,” he said humbly. "I’m 
afraid I’ve let the confirmation of 
my theory go to my head, that’s all. 
It’s the old I-told-you-so-syndrome. 
It'll wear off as soon as I get on the 
wire and start remembering that /';« 
a fifth-generation man myself, and 
just as weak-kneed as any of you.” 
Half an hour later, Tobias again 

60 



had proved his point. He felt a 
sudden uneasiness as he approached 
the microphone and knew that he 
was within a few seconds of speak- 
ing to an Earthman. It was a form 
of stagefright, Tobias thought. An 
outgrowth of the undeniable truth 
that five generations of easy living 
had made the colonists of Dariak 
unfit for the hard and sharp give- 
and-take that was necessary when 
two worlds had dealings with one 
another. 

Tobias stepped to the microphone 
and grasped its base with his sud- 
denly cold right hand. "Hello?” he 
said hesitantly. 

"Hello,” came the firm reply. 
"This is Waddell, of the Colonial 
Office, New York. Are you Tobias, 
of Dariak 1?” 

"Yes,” Tobias said. "Dave To- 
bias. I'm a computer technician. 
That is—” 

"Of course, Tobias,” said the 
tinny voice coming from the speak- 
er. "This call is costing your planet 
a fortune, friend. What’s on your 
mind ?” 

"We . . . we . . . we’ve been 
invaded by aliens,” Tobias said. He 
poured out the whole story in an 
uncheckable torrent of words: how 
the Lodarians had come in ugly 
dark-hulled ships, had landed in the 
village of Mondu one morning, had 
shepherded about half the village, 
more than four hundred men, wom- 
en, and children, into their ships, 
and had blasted off again. 

The Earthman, Waddell, listened 
patiently. When Tobias was through 

ASTOUNDING SCIKNCE FICTION 



he said, 'Tve got the picture. What 
sort of people are these Lodarians?” 

"The reports we have picture them 
as tall, blue-skinned humanoids with 
slit noses and rudimentary third 
eyes. They said they were down from 
Lodar IX, which is a planet of a 
blue-white star pretty far from here.” 

"What are they like?” Waddell 
asked. 

"They were soldiers,” said Tobias. 
"Wearing uniforms, under strict 
discipline, moved like clockwork. 
They didn’t speak much. They look 
like rough customers,” he added. 

"Um-m-m.” The Earthman was 
silent for a maddeningly long mo- 
ment, and Tobias found himself be- 
coming conscious of the price-pcr- 
second for a call of this sort. Finally 
Waddell spoke. 

"You want a negotiator, eh?” 

"That’s right,” Tobias said. "We 
. . let’s face it, sir, we’re not very 
aggressive. We don’t think we can 
deal with these Lodarians by our- 
selves. And we do want that village 
back. Can you help us?” 

"I think so,” Waddell said amia- 
bly. "We’ll have a man on his way 
to you in a day or so, and you can 
fill him in on the details when he 
gets there.” 

Suddenly Tobias remembered one 
of Culver’s hasty last-minute in- 
structions. Demand only the best, 
Culver had admonished him. Don’t 
let them send us a second-rater. 
This thing is important. 

"Is there anything else?” Waddell 
said crisply. 

Tobias stared helplessly at the 



microphone for a second. "You’ll 
send a good man, won’t you?” he 
asked finally. "Someone who can 
really stand up to the Lodarians? A 
general, maybe?” 

There was something like a pity- 
ing chuckle at the other end. Then 
Waddell said, "Don’t worry, friend. 
We’ll take good care of you. Is that 
all?” 

"That’s all,” Tobias said. 

L 

"Mission completed,” Tobias told 
Culver when he had stepped outside 
the radio room at the Capitol. He 
felt an odd sense of triumph, and 
simultaneously a deep shame. He 
was proud that he had handled the 
conversation with Waddell so nice- 
ly, and ashamed that he should ncecl 
to find such an achievement a source 
of pride. 

"We heard the whole thing,” said 
Christenson, the vice president. He 
was a big, bright-eyed old man with 
a sharply pointed v/hite beard. "They 
sound like they’ll be able to help 
us.” 

"Provided we get someone who 
can do the job,” said Culver. "We 
didn’t discuss price or ariything — 
but do we dare try for a stipulation 
that says we don’t pay unless he gets 
results?” 

Tobias shook his head. "Tliey’ll 
laugh at you. No, we’re just going 
to have to depend on what they send 
us.” 

"Why weren’t you more specific?” 
Culver asked. "It’s too late to do 
anything about it now, but why 
didn’t you make sure they knew it 



RUN OF THE MILL 



61 



was a big job? Remember, we’ve 
been invaded by hostile aliens. 
That’s important to Earth as well 
as to us — and if they don’t realize 
that, they may send us some bum- 
bling career diplomat who won’t get 
anywhere with the Lodarians.” He 
reddened. "After all, we’re not very\^ 
important in the galactic scheme of 
things, and if they don’t realize — ’’ 
"1 think I made it as clear as I 
could,’’ Tobias said. "If we don’t 
have confidence in their judgment. 
We shouldn’t have hired them in the 
first place."' 

"Good point,’’ Christenson said. 
"Thanks," said Tobias wryly. 
"T!ic Earthman ought to be here in 
a few days. We’re not going to get 
anywhere worrying about him in 
advance.’’ 

"You’re right,” Culver admitted. 
"What say a good swim, and then 
some foot races on the beach? It’ll 
help to pass the time till he comes. 
I can’t think of any other govern- 
ment business that has to be taken 
care of now . . . can you, Ned?" 

"Not I," Christenson said. "I 
vote for a swim.” 

"Care to join us, Dave?” 

"Might as well,” said Tobias. 
"As long as there’s nothing more 
important to do.” 

"Even if there is,” said Culver. 
"A swim will relax us.” 

"Of course,” Tobias said. He 
chuckled. 

"What’s so funny?” Culver de- 
manded, a little annoyed. 

"You are,” said Tobias. "I think 
you must be tire most predictable 

€2 



man who ever lived. Come on — 
let’s go relax somewhere.” 

Leonard B. Kincannon arrived on 
Dariak I exactly seven days later. 
There had been one curt telegram 
the day before from the neighbor- 
ing system of Kynor, announcing 
that the Earthman was on the final 
leg of his journey, and then he 
arrived. 

He came in a two-man hyperjob 
that whistled into normal space higli 
in the cloudless sky of Dariak I 
and followed the guide-beam down 
in a perfect spiral orbit that brought 
it to rest gently on the appointed 
beach. 

Two men clambered down the 
catwalk of the small ship, and as 
(hey did so a group of Dariaki trot- 
Icil energetically over the warm 
white sand to meet them. The group 
included President Culver, Vice 
president Christenson, cyber techni- 
cian Tobias, and a handful of other 
important citizens who had noth- 
ing more urgent to do that morning. 

Tobias was in the rear . of the 
group, and he saw Culver reach the 
two men first. One of the men from 
the ship was an impressive-looking 
giant whose teeth flashed brightly 
even at the distance that separated 
them. This was obviously Leonard 
B. Kincannon, Tobias decided, and 
his heart quickened at the prospect 
of having this benevolent Goliath 
come across space to plead their 
suit. 

Then he saw the giant in the 
radiant uniform step aside, and re- 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



veal to view a small, nondescript 
man in a gray business suit. The 
pilot, Tobias thought immediately, 
and almost at once that thought was 
replaced by the sickening realiza- 
tion that the mousy man in the 
business suit probably was, must be, 
Leonard B. Kincannon. 

It has to be that tvay, he thought 
dismally. Me saw Culver shake the 
small man’s hand enthusiastically, 
and knew it was true. This was the 
man liarth had sent. This was Leon- 
ard B. Kincannon, whose very 
name, preceding him by a day, had 
grown to colossal stature on 
Dariak I. 

Tobias slowed to a walk and 
headed across the sand. Disillusion- 
ment, he was tiiscovering, was a 
soLir-tasting thing. Me walked up to 
where Culver and the others were 
standing in a loose semicircle around 
the two Earthmen, the brawny pilot 
and the scrawny diplomat. 

"This is Mr. Tobias," Culver said. 
"Tie’s the man who made the origi- 
nal contact with Waddell.” 

"Why, hello," Kincannon said. 
He extended a hand, and Tobias 
shook it. It was soft and womanlike, 
not at all a hand to inspire confi- 
dence. 

Tobias caught a cold glare from 
Culver. 'I’he others, then, felt the 
same way about Kincannon — cheat- 
ed. And they probably were going 
to blame Tobias for the whole 
thing. 

Lie glanced at Kincannon again, 
surreptitiously evaluating him. He 
was small, all right, no more than 



five-six or so, with mild, faded-blue 
eyes, thin blond eyebrows, an un- 
impressive snub nose, and a gentle 
mouth curved in a rather vapid 
smile. 

"I suppose you’d like to have all 
the details about the situation here, 
don’t you?” Culver began, a trifle 
eagerly. 

"Not just yet, please,” said the 
Earthman in a soft voice. "It’s been 
a long journey, and I’m tired. 
Suppose we talk about it after 
lunch?” 

Later, when Christenson led the 
two Earthmen to the house that 
would be theirs temporarily — it be- 
longeai to a wealthy fisherman named 
Sloves who was off on a tour some- 
where to the south, and who would 
not mind — Culver hung back and 
caught Tobias’ arm. 

"Well, Dave? What do you think 
of him?” 

Tobias spread his hands. "It’s 
hard to say. He’s not very talkative, 
is he?” 

"No,” Culver said. "Not at all.” 

“You want me to admit he’s no 
good, don’t you?” Tobias asked 
harshly. "As if it’s my fault they’d 
send a clinker!” 

"No one said he was a clinker, 
Dave. But we are a little . . . disap- 
pointed, shall we say? He’s hardly 
the sort of man who looks like he 
can dictate terms to the Lodarians.” 

Tobias , shrugged again. I'The 
Earthmen apparently think he can, 
or he wouldn’t have been sent.” 

"But suppose he makes tilings 

63 



RUN OF THE MILL 



worse}” Culver asked desperately. 
"Suppose they laugh him ofif their 
planet and declare full-scale war 
against us, Dave?” 

Tobias turned and grasped Culver 
by both shoulders. \ 

"Listen, Claude, we’ve cominittecf 
ourselves to this thing up to the 
throat. We admitted we couldn’t do 
the job ourselves — ” 

"You admitted it.” 

■ "You agreed with me, didn’t you? 
Don’t single me out. I’m just the 
one who dared to come out and say 
what we were all thinking — and I 
didn’t say it until the computer con- 
firmed it!” 

"I’m sorry,” Culver said meekly. 
"All right. We asked Earth to 
bail us out — and now we’re going 
to have to rely on whatever Earth 
sent us.” A sly look came into 
Tobias’ eyes. "Look here, Claude.. 
If Kincannon should botch things, 
if he bumbles us into a war with 
Lodar — that’s going to make Earth 
look terrible, isn’t it? They’ll prob- 
ably want to save their face some- 
how. And what better way than 
intervening in the war they helped 
to cause? Wouldn’t you want to 
have Earth fighting on our side?” 
"You’ve got a point there,” Cul- 
ver said. "Let’s go in and meet the 
man, shall we?” 

They entered the Sloves home. 
Kincannon was sprawled on a divan, 
having taken off his shoes and 
jacket. "Hello, gentlemen,” he said 
as they entered. "Mind if I make 
myself comfortable?” 

"Not at all,” Culver said. "I was 



wondering how long you’d stay in 
that formal outfit.” 

"Only as long as I had to, Mr. 
Culver.” Kincannon sat up. "1 don’t 
have much time for this project. I’m 
afraid. My schedule’s a busy one. I’d 
like to find out exactly what happen- 
ed here, before I journey to Lodar 
to talk to them about it.” 

Rapidly, Culver sketched out the 
events that had taken place. Kin- 
cannon nodded over each bit of 
salient data, and tugged reflec- 
tively at his ear when Culver was 
through. 

"Ah ... I see. Very well. I’ll do 
my best.” He smiled pleasantly, and 
indicated that he would like to be 
left alone. 

"Well, he’s gone,” Culver said. 
He stood there, staring at the place 
on the beach where the two-man 
ship had been, and finally turned 
away. "I hope he doesn’t mess 
things up too badly on Lodar.” 

"I have a feeling he won’t,” 
Tobias said. "Somehow I think 
there’s a pretty strong man under- 
neath that meek-looking exterior.” 
"He hides it well,” Culver said. 
They walked slowly back toward 
the town. Tobias excused himself 
when they reached the vicinity of 
the computer lab; he said he had 
some urgent work to do, mumbled 
something about figuring the tides 
for next Wednesday, and ducked 
inside. ' , 

He stood looking at the gleaming 
computer for a long time before 
he was able to decide on a line of 



64 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 




approach. I'inally, he integrated 
what new data lie had and fed it 
to the machine’s storage banks. 

He lit a cigarette and waited, 
giving the computer time to mull 
over its new information — a totally 
unnecessary wait, he knew, since the 
memory banks absorbed virtually 
instantly. But he felt he needed the 
pause, even if the computer didn’t. 
■When the cigarette was a stub, he 
punched out a new question. 

"Question: Will the Earthman 
Kincannon succeed in preventing 
war between Lodar and Dariak? 

"Subquestion: In the event that 
he does, will the resulting situation 
be beneficial to Dariak?” 

Tobias fidgeted nervously while 
the machine went to work on the 
two problems. He could hear its 
steady murmur as it computed prob- 
abilities based on the already-given 
characteristics of Lodar and Dariak, 
on the uncertain factor of Kincan- 
non, and on the vague logistics of 



diplomacy. Finally the tape began to 
unreel. 

"Answer: Yes. 

"Answer to Subquestion: There 
is no answer. Question does not have 
cognitive meaning.” 

Tobias toyed with the tape, wind- 
ing it around cold fingers. He was 
puzzled. Why the emphatic Yes for 
the question? And why the ambigu- 
ous, even more disturbing evasion 
for the Subquestion? 

He started to frame a second 
question for the machine, one that 
might clarify these answers. But 
after a few moments he gave up, 
shaking his head, and destroyed the 
answer-tape he had received. 

The next few days were anxious 
ones for the people of Dariak. 
Tobias noticed a tenseness come 



EUN OF THE MILL 



65 



over them, a quiet unmentioned 
tightness of jaw and of cheek that 
had never been known on the care- 
free planet before. They were wor- 
ried. 

No one had much confidence in 
Kincannon, either, and Tobias dici^ 
not reveal the unequivocal "Yes” of 
the computer because of the puzzling 
answer to the subquestion that was 
attached. Tobias sensed that there 
was a subtle belief in the village that 
he, cyber technician Dave Tobias, 
was somehow personally responsible 
for the apparent ineptness of the 
Earthman. 

Tobias clenched his lists. Dammit, 
he’d done his best — and if Earth 
chose to send a dub, why . . . 

But the computer said Kincannon 
wouldn’t jail. 

"He’s not quite what I expected,’’ 
someone said. "I figured they’d send 
us a military man, or a leader of 
some sort — a heroic figure about six- 
six, with bulging muscles and iron- 
hard eyes. Instead we got a little guy 
in a business suit.’’ 

"Earth knows what it’s doing,” 
Tobias said. "They must have sent 
the right man.” 

"But still . . . still, he doesn’t look 
right. He looks like a bank clerk, or 
something. He’s so unheroic! How’s 
he going to swing any weight with 
die Lodarians?” 

"I don’t know,” Tobias said. "I 
don’t know.” 

He spent the next four days in a 
nervous state that hovered tenuously 
between optimism and pessimism 
without ever becoming eiAer. Out- 

66 



wardly, he refused to join in the 
general expression of indignation 
over the fact that Earth had sent 
such an unimpressive figure — but 
inwardly, he confessed that he, too, 
had little faith in Kincannon, despite 
the computer’s affirmative answer. 

On the morning of the fifth day 
after Kincannon’s departure, Tobias 
was awakened by a sudden thunder- 
ing barrage of knocks on his door. 

Groggily, he opened one eye. 
"What’s going on?” 

"The Lodarians! Three big ships 
just came down,” Culver’s voice 
said. "They’re armed to the teeth, 
Dave!” 

"I am Major Xablesca,” said a 
tall, solemn-faced Lodarian, bowing 
stiffly. "I am commander of this 
detachment. You are the comman- 
der of the local outpost?” 

"I’m Claude Culver — the Presi- 
dent of Dariak. This is my Vice 
president, Mr. Christenson. And this 
is Mr. Tobias, who assisted us in 
contacting you.” 

"It is a pleasure to meet you,” 
the major said in crisp, measured 
tones. "Mr. Kincannon of Earth has 
told us much about you and your 
planet. We are terribly sorry about 
this entire incident, and we hope 
that this misunderstanding will not 
bar the way to a peaceful interchange 
of ideas between your world and 
mine.” 

"We hope so,” Culver said. 

"We are aware,” the Lodarian 
said loftily, "of how much there is 
for us to learn from you — and we 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



thank yon for making it possible 
for us to so learn.” He looked 
around. "You will excuse me now. 
I must return to my men. I shall 
see you later, when it is time to 
sign the treaty Mr. Kincannon has 
negotiated for us.” 

The fierce-looking Lodarian stalk- 
ed away across the beach. The three 
Dariaki stood together, none of 
them caring to voice the thought 
uppermost in his mind. 

Finally Culver turned to Christen- 
son. "Mow’s the tally?” 

"We're not missing anybody,” the 
bearded vice president said. "I’ve 
ju.st finished counting. They return- 
ed every single one of them- -all 
four hutulred sixty-three prisoners.” 
"Good,” Culver said. "We have 
all our own back, at least. Now 
what?” 

"What do you mean?” Tobias 
asked. 

"I mean Kincannon’s sold us 
down the river!” Culver snapped. 
"Sure, he got us back the people the 
Lodarians kidnaped. But do you re- 
alize what else lie’s done to us?” 
"If you mean that he’s gotten us 
out of a war 

"I mean that he’s taken deliberate 
steps to destroy our civilization ! Oh, 
he tells us he’s foxing the Lodarians, 
making them love us instead of hate 
us. Oh, sure! So what does he do? 
He gets the Lodarians to love us so 
much that they want to set up an 
armed camp here, while we teach 
them how to be peaceful.” 

Tobias frowned. "All he said was 
that the Lodarians would like to 



establish an enclave on Dariak for 
five years, living with us and learn- 
ing our ways. The Lodarians just 
don’t know what it’s like not to be 
aggressive, and they’re anxious to 
learn. Isn’t that all right?” 

"No! I don’t care about this high- 
flown talk of educating the Lodari- 
ans to peace. What about us? Do 
you want a batch of Lodarian sol- 
diers living here on Dariak, march- 
ing up and down around here, a 
constant threat to our lives?” Culver 
chuckled hollowly. "Oh, no — Kin- 
cannon doesn’t fool me. Earth wants 
to feed Dariak to the Lodarians as 
a bribe to keep them from causing 
trouble elsewhere. And we’re hung 
up in the deal !” 

Tobias stiffened. He knew that 
what Culver said made sense. Al- 
lowing the Lodarians to build an 
enclave on Dariak was a dangerous 
move no matter how piously the 
Lodarians claimed they wanted to 
have their fangs pulled. 

But yet . . . yet, Kincannon was 
here because the computer had sug- 
gested it, and Tobias, therefore, was 
somewhat responsible for the Earth- 
man’s interference. He felt called 
upon to defend Kincannon’s actions. 

"Let’s go see Kincannon,” he 
suggested. "He’ll explain. He’ll give 
us some assurance that — ” 

"We’ll go see Kincannon, all 
right,” Culver said. "But only to tell 
him to pack up and get moving. 
We’re not signing any suicide treaty 
with Lodar!” 

They went to see Kincannon. 



RUN OP THE MILL 



67 



Kincannon spoke to them. After 
a while, they returned to their vil- 
lage. Tobias headed for the com- 
puter lab. 

Kincannon was gone, having 
blasted off right after the confert 
ence. The Lodarians were still there,' 
busily erecting their ugly, harsh- 
looking huts. They were staying. 

Tobias felt pleased about it, too 
— not because he cared for the 
Lodarians, but because he knew 
Dariak was on tire road to self- 
dependence. There would no longer 
be the need to call in Earthmcn to 
fight their battles for them. 

It would never be the same again. 
The Lodarian soldiers woidd change 
Dariak, would toughen the Dariaki 
by . . . well, osmosis, Tobias 
thought. He smiled. Kincannon 
didn’t realize what he had actually 
done when he arranged this com- 
promise. 

Gone would be the dreamy-eyed 
beachcombers of the past; with the 
Lodarians as models, the Dariaki 
would awaken, would stiffen up, 
would develop backbones. 

He looked at his watch. It was 
still early; later, there would be a 
meeting of the villagers to discuss 
the new plans. First, Tobias had to 
settle a few things in his own mind. 

The planet would prosper. Indus- 
tries, space travel, export and im- 
port — these would come. Kincannon 
had unwittingly tripped the trigger, 
and now Dariak could enter the 
heart of galactic trade. 

Why had Kincannon done it? 
Out of expediency, he said. Wars 

tl8 



were costly nuisances, and it was 
better for everybody concerned if 
the Dariaki accepted the Lodarian 
enclave. Finally, Culver had con- 
sented. 

Expediency. No, not quite that. 
Dariak would use the Lodarians, 
would grow around them into .1 
mighty planet. Kincannon hadn't 
figured on that. And -jet — 

Tobias leaned forward and stared 
at his fingertips. Something still 
nagged at the back of his mind, 
something that ate into his brain 
and left quivering suspicion. I le 
was the only man on the planet 
who could find out the truth, (00. 
I've got. to do it. he thouglit, and 
tlicn wondered idly why the ur- 
gency. Why did he have to check ? 

He shrugged. He’d do it anyway. 
A cold bead of. sweat trickled down 
his face as he walked to the com- 
puter, lips pursed speculatively, ,uid 
integrated the terrifying question. 

"Question; Will the changes that 
will come to Dariak as a result of 
the treaty with Lodar be beneficial 
to us?” 

He thought for a moment, then 
tapped out: 

"Subquestion: Would we have 

regarded these changes as beneficial 
a week ago?” 

Part of his mind wondered why 
he was doing this. Another part 
quelled the thought. And then the 
answer clicked out. 

"Answer to Question; Yes. 

"Answer to Subquestion; No.” 

Tobias let the tape slip to the 
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



floor. He had the explanation, then, 
of why the computer had refused 
to reply earlier. The computer 
operated logically, and so was un- 
able to take into consideration a 
question whose answer would be 
No one time and Yes a week later. 

Why had the answer changed? 

Simple, part of Tobias’ brain re- 
sponded. The factor that had been 
added to the situation: Kincannon. 
He had worked the trick, the run- 
of-the-mill little Earthman. 

Dariak had expected a seven-foot 
hero in shining armor; instead, they 
got Kincannon — just run-of-the-mill. 
But there was nothing wrong with 
that, if the mill-run product was 
perfect. 

What Dariak had wanted Earth 
to send was a kind of a superman — 
a super-Lodarian, really, bigger and 
stronger and uglier, with a blaster 
in each hand. 

The superman had come, but his 
weapons were better than blasters. 
Tobias looked down at the rolled-up 
yellow strip of. tape at his feet, and 
at the suddenly narrowing walls of 
the computer lab. He had the evi- 
dence. He swayed dizzily. 

A week ago, the Dariaki had 
wanted only to be left alone — so 
said the computer. Now, suddenly, 
they wanted to become galactic 
leaders. And the Lodarians had 
wanted to conquer the universe. 
Now they wanted to learn the ways 
of peace. Kincannon did that, Tobias 
thought. 

It was impossible for him to be- 



lieve that their drives could have 
been so different a week ago. But 
though they had changed, the com- 
puter hadn’t — and its testimony re- 
vealed exactly what Kincannon had 
done. 

Kincannon was the most danger- 
ous weapon there was — a weapon 
that attacked need and desire, and 
altered it. Tobias shuddered. There 
was no defense against it; by the 
time you knew you were being at- 
tacked, you didn’t want to fight 
back any more. 

Part of Tobias’ mind felt faint 
indignation, as he came to the in- 
tellectual realization that he had 
been manipulated. It stung his ego 
— for a moment. Then the rest of 
his mind took over, the part that 
felt calm acceptance of the fact that 
Kincannon had acted for everyone’s 
greatest good. He felt a strange 
sense of pride that the universe 
could produce such a man. 

No one but Tobias knew what 
had been done — and he had con- 
sulted the computer. He destroyed 
the tape. Glancing out of the win- 
dow be saw the Lodarians busily 
setting up their enclave. 

That’s the way we’ll look- when 
we build our spaceport. We’ve al- 
ways wanted to build a spaceport. 

He smiled and shook his head, 
thinking of the pudgy Earthman on 
his way to his next task somewhere 
in the galaxy. Just run-of-the-mill, 
he thought abstractedly. Just a 
dumpy little run-of-the-mill super- 
man. 



THE END 



RUN OF THE MILL 



69 




DIVINE RIGHT 

Immortality is the ancient 
dream — the everlasting main- 
tenance of the Self I Am. And 
that, it happens, is inherentlg 
impossible by the Nature of 
Things. Fellowship; yes. Im- 
mortality? Not quite. . . . 

BY LESTER del REY 

lllusfrafed by Freas 

The cybcrnctiis wing of Jios In- 
stitute lay in the shadow of the 
central tower, where even the faint 
twilight failed to reach it. Most of 
the building was dark in the lull 
of annual finals. The .successful 
students were out celebrating their 
newly created Fellowships; those 
who had failed were already gone, 
to make whatever they could of their 
doctorates. Only a few lights shone 
from windows here and there as 
neophyte Fellows cleaned out their 
laboratories or grew accustomed in 
private to the official masks that 
proved their rank. 

The lights were on in the room 
where Mark Saxon waited, but there 
was no mask to conceal his blond, 



70 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



square-cut face or cover the sterility 
symbol tattoed on his forehead. He 
was rubbing the mark unconsciously 
now while his big body was slumped 
in front of tlie humming computer. 
Then, as two rows of symbols began 
forming on the panel, he groaned 
faintly and swung away. 

He snapped off the lights and 
power and turned toward the labora- 
tory window, gazing across the park- 
lands around the Institute. The 
palace of the World Custodian lay 
beyond, alreaily bathed in a rosy 
flood of liglit. Above the dome, the 
great figure of a masked Minerva 
poised, eager Ixxly and arms stretcli- 
ed toward the east, as if reacliing 
for the dawn. M.irk stared at it, as 
he had done a thousand nights be- 
fore, but this time the inspiration 
was lacking in the sight. 

Abruptly, the musical tone of the 
phone sounded. Mark swiveled to 
reach the receiver and saw the little- 
panel light up with the pleasantly 
plain face of I.etty, receptionist and 
general girl Friday for this floor. 

"Dr. Saxon?” She bent closer, try- 
ing to make out his face, and worry 
quickened on her own features. 
"Mark, you shouldn’t be sitting alone 
in the dark!” 

He shrugged. "I’m all right, Lctty. 
Any word from the dean?” 

The question was more automatic 
than hopeful, though. He’d put in 
his appeal for a continuation of his 
research project weeks before, when 
he finally realized he couldn’t com- 
plete it this term. It was too much 



to hope for any action now, at the 
end of the final day. 

"Not yet, Mark. But the dean 
hasn’t left yet, so there's still time.” 
Letty was determined to sound 
optimistic, though she must have 
known as well as he how little chance 
he had. "Fellow Northrop wants 
you to see him, though.” 

Mark shrugged again. Northrop 
had made overtures of friendship 
before, but the young Fellow some- 
how rubbed Mark the wrong way. 
There was an air of too sure famil- 
iarity mixed with a peculiar attitude 
that might have been normal for 
an older brother in his advances. 
Besides, it wasn’t normal for a Fel- 
low to associate too closely with a 
mere doctor. "Anything else?” he 
asked. 

"There’s a box of books and pa- 
pers from Central Files for you being 
sent up. And the janitor wants to 
know when he can start cleaning out 
your lab. I told him he could just 
wait until your time’s up at mid- 
night.” 

"Thanks,” he told her, and hung 
up. It fitted. He’d waited two months 
for the material from Central Files, 
but they weren’t ready here to wait 
five more hours for him to leave. 

He sighed and dropped back to 
his seat in front of the computer, 
switching it on, staring at the im- 
possibly duplicated rows of symbols 
that appeared. One row represented 
a supposedly exact mathematical 
analysis of the personality of the 
current custodian; the second did the 
same for another custodian who had 



DIVINE RIGHT 



71 



been irr office over a hundred years 
ago. Yet the two were identical. 
Either his three years of work here 
was a failure, or else Custody was 
in the hands of an immortal man! 

It was utter nonsense. It was an 
idea from the degraded depths of 
tumors spawned by the anarchistic 
Ruddies. Only malcontents driven 
to fantastic fantasies by their sterility 
could believe such things about the 
custodian. 

Automatically, Mark’s fingers went 
up to touch the tattoo on his fore- 
head, and he winced. Then he shook 
his head. He wasn’t unbalanced by 
his sterility. He’d learned to accept 
it without even attempting to avoid 
looking at the mark that had been 
put there after his routine examina- 
tion when he was fourteen; With a 
fifth of all children born completely 
sterile after the final wars, the race 
had been forced to separate them 
publicly, and Mark had realized the 
need of his tattoo. It wasn’t the 
first shock in his life. 

He’d been orphaned in one of the 
political upsets of his section. After 
he’d adjusted to the Custodial home, 
he’d been ripped out for a series 
of examinations and then given to 
the guardianship of a Fellow who 
kept him isolated from all playmates. 
Finally, when he’d learned to love 
the man, "Uncle Will” had been 
sent to one of the Custodial Hermit- 
ages with almost no warning and no 
hope of any further contact. The 
knowledge of sterility had only been 
another in a series of events that 
separated him from the human race. 

72 



He’d bottled his bitterness away in 
his brain with the loneliness of his 
whole life, submerging it under his 
fight for acceptance into the Institute 
and the Fellowship that would jus- 
tify his existence. 

Now was no time to drift back 
into childish fantasies of immortal- 
ity, where the divine right of sur- 
vival couldn’t be denied. He had to 
admit that either his data or liis 
methods were wrong. Given time, 
he could find the error, then. But 
not in. the five hours until midniglit! 

As if in answer to his thoughts, 
the phone hummed again. This time, 
Letty was smiling. "Mark, good 
news! Dean Grisholm wants to sec 
you in his office, at once! It must 
mean — ” 

"It doesn’t mean anything yet,” 
he told her. He’d long since learned 
to avoid hope without good reason, 
and this late reprieve olTcrcd little 
encouragement. But at her hurt look, 
he forced his voice to a more cheer- 
ful tone. "Maybe it will, though. 
Wish me luck, Letty!” 

She crossed her fingers quickly, 
before cutting off. Mark gathered up 
the papers that were to have been 
his final proof, staring again at the 
rows of symbols on the panel. For 
a second, he reached for a blank 
sheet of paper, intending to add 
them to his notes. But the results 
were too fantastic. He hadn’t claim- 
ed complete success, so there would 
be no dishonesty in omitting this. 
Some things had to wait until they 
could be explained — if he ever got 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



a chance to find an explanation. He 
ait off power and headed out into 
the hall, toward the elevator that 
would take him to the top of the 
central tower, where the dean’s 
offices were. 

The clerical help was ■ gone when 
he reached them, but the door was 
open to the inner office, and he 
could see Grisholm sitting at his 
desk. The man was a short, stout 
Santa Claus type, with his face 
hidden by a grizzled beard and the 
Fellowshi|-) mask over it. Mark had 
heard rumors that his appointment 
four years licfore by the new cus- 
todian was resented by other Fel- 
lows; the man's previous career had 
been something of a mystery, beyond 
his listing in tlie graduate rolls. The 
students seldom saw him, except for 
the sight of him moving to and from 
his house in the park outside. 

Now he looked up and his lips 
parted in a brief smile. "Come on 
in, Mark. Thought Fd recognize that 
towhead, though it’s twenty years 
since I sat in on the examination for 
you. ’ Not many blonds born these 
days.’’ He thrust out a plump hand, 
then motioned to a chair as if Mark 
were more tlian a mere doctor. "Now 
what’s all tliis about appealing for 
an extension on your research? Any 
proof the added time will let you 
finish?” 

Mark handed the papers across, 
trying to remember the man. But 
that whole early examination was a 
blur, as if hypnotic erasure had 
been used. He’d never discovered 
the purpose of the test, though he’d 



learned that many of the students 
here had gone through a similar 
experience. 

Grisholm dropped the papers after 
a quick glance. "Suppose you sum- 
marize. You were reversing normal 
information theory practice, as I get 
it, trying to find the factors in 
language which have significance 
only to the personality. Trying to 
find how personality shapes speech. 
Psychic bits, eh? Right?” 

"Roughly, yes.” Stated so baldly, 
it robbed the work of the subtlety 
of its departure from standard in- 
formation analysis, but it was ac- 
curate enough. His original mono- 
graph lay on the dean’s desk, and 
he indicated it, trying to summarize 
his improvements. In the last two 
months, he’d found the fruitful at- 
tack he’d been seeking. Except for 
the one case — which still might be 
due to faulty data — he’d rebuilt his 
computer and organized his methods 
so well that he could get a positive 
index of a man’s individuality from 
as little as five hundred words of 
his writing, even when the writer 
tried to change his style. He’d spot- 
ted pen names the writers believed 
to be completely secret and repeated- 
ly matched writing samples against 
the writers. 

"All this in the last two months 
since your original report?” Gris- 
holm asked skeptically. "After three 
years on that?” 

"I had help,” Mark told him. 
Letty had slaved night after night 
in the converted cellar of her house 
to finish the important filing and 



DIVINE RIGHT 



73 



cross-checking, and she’d even per- 
suade several of her friends to 
help. "I’d have gotten even further 
on regular research time if my re- 
quests for aid from the clerical pool 
hadn’t been denied !’’ 

Grisholm grinned wryly. “You 
covered that pretty thoroughly in 
your petition. It read as if the whole 
Institute had been conspiring to keep 
you from finishing. No, never mind 
— I’m not offended. Maybe you were 
short-changed a little. We ran into 
more demands on the pool than usual 
this year, and I had to allocate help 
where it seemed most productive.’’ 
He waited, as if expecting a pro- 
test. Mark let it ride, and Grisholm 
shrugged before going on. "You 
had an interesting line of research, 
but hardly useful except as pure 
knowledge. Maybe it matters aca- 
demically who wrote what of 
Shakespeare, but it won’t solve any 
important world problems. You men- 
tioned something of great impor- 
tance in your original application, 
but I don’t think you really knew 
of such a thing. Or did you?’’ 

"I was going to use identity proof 
to disprove the Ruddy rumors about 
the custodian being an immortal 
man, using us all,” Mark answered. 
There was no way of knowing how 
the slanderous stories of transplanted 
brains and other atrocities had be- 
gun, any more than the lies about 
the Fellows planning to move to the 
Moon and blast the Earth. But it had 
bothered him as a child, and no story 
was too wild for some of the adult 
people to swallow. 

74 



Then he jerked as he remembered 
the symbols on his computer panel 
abruptly. Now he’d probably have 
to tell the whole business and — 

"Dr. Saxon!” Grisholm’s eyes 
were cold and sharp behind the 
mask. "Some things don’t need dis- 
proof, I might remind you! If you 
are trying to make your work some- 
thing that affects the custodian so 
you can appeal over my head, you'll 
have to do better than that!” 

"I wasn’t trying anything!" 

The dean's eyes grew even sharp- 
er. "Um-m-m. You’re sterile, 1 see. 
There’s some evidence of a feeling 
of persecution in your petition. Now 
you show an overconcern with im- 
mortality. We usually wccti out all 
cases of sterility paranoia, but- 
"I protest!” Mark found himself 
on his feet, his hands clenched, his 
blood pounding against his temples, 
"You have no right!" 

Suddenly Grisholm's body relaxed 
and he leaned back in his ch.iir, 
chuckling. "Trapped, damn it! 'Very 
clever, Mark. You needled me into 
showing what might be called per- 
sonal prejudice against you, so I 
guess you can invoke your right to 
protest directly to the custodian. All 
right, you win. But first, let me 
show you something.” 

Fie leaned forward to the scanner 
that connected to the Central File, 
pulling out a complex electronic key 
and inserting it while he tapped out 
a code on the indexer. "This is from 
the secret files, so I’ll need your 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



promise not to speak of it to any- 
one.” 

Mark nodded, forcing himself 
back to his chair while his blood 
pressure began dropping to normal. 
He hadn’t meant anything clever; 
he hadn’t even remembered the rule 
on personal prejudice. But he could 
not let the cliancc go, since he sus- 
pected that some measure of real 
prejudice was involved. 

Grisholm spun through the index 
that appeared on the screen and 
grunted as he found something. 
"Here, take a look at this.” 

Slipping by on the screen was a 
student’s report, datcti nearly a hun- 
dred years before. Clumsy, round- 
about and in strange .symbols, 
it still duplicated most of Mark’s 
work! 

"I should have been told of this,” 
Mark protested. 

Grisholm released the index. "No 
reason. We’ve found duplicate proj- 
ects sometimes pay off handsomely. 
You’re judged on what you do with 
a line of work, not how much has 
been covered before. But in this case, 
there was also an appeal to the 
custodian — and Fellowship was with- 
held. Precedent’s against you. Be- 
sides, from such an appeal you get 
only uncpialified acceptance or rejec- 
tion. On the other hand, even if I 
fail you, I can give you a recom- 
mendation of merit. That will make 
things a lot easier for you.” 

"I still appeal,” Mark told him. 
He was sure now that Grisholm 
didn’t mean to give him an exten- 
sion; the whole argument could have 



been ended too easily by simply 
agreeing to that. 

Grisholm reached for a rubber 
stamp, slapped it on Mark’s report, 
and signed quickly, before dropping 
the papers down one of the slots 
on his desk. "All right, that’s it. 
You’ll get a three-day extension 
here, automatically, until your appeal 
is heard. Now let's get out of here. 
My cook’s been waiting supper for 
hours. Here, Fll take you down 
with me.” 

He flicked off the lights and 
touched a button that opened a small 
door to a private elevator. He seemed 
in the best spirits in the world, 
more than ever like a genial Santa 
Claus left over from Christmas. It 
was all wrong for a man over whose 
head an appeal had been forced, 
and it worried Mark, though he tried 
to mumble his thanks. 

Grisholm brushed the words aside 
as they reached the ground floor. 
"Forget it, boy. Why not join me 
for dinner? Now that your fate’s out 
of my hands, there’s no reason 
against it.” He smiled, as if it were 
some unusually good joke. "At my 
age, a man needs young company 
once in a while.” 

"'I’hank you,” Mark said awk- 
wardly. He groped for a reason to 
refuse and seized on the first polite 
lie he could think of. "But I’ve al- 
ready got a date.” 

Grisholm nodded, the amusement 
on his face deepening. "Of course, 
of course. Don’t let me keep you, 
then.” 

He stood watching as Mark moved 

75 



DIVINE EIGHT 



away, ruining the younger man’s 
idea of returning to his laboratory. 
Maybe it was just as well, though. 
It was well past dinnertime. 

Mark headed toward the all-night 
tavern just outside the Institute 
grounds, trying to make sense of 
Grisholm’s behavior and failing. He 
was also bothered by the fact that 
the earlier report had been in the 
secret files. It didn’t make logic. 
Even that could have been used to 
end some of the rumors about the 
custodian — unless it also indicated 
the presence of an immortal dictator 
over them! 

He cursed at the thought and 
threw it savagely out of his mind. 
Immortality was impossible. Besides, 
it would ruin the whole integrity 
of the Custody. Without that, there 
was no hope of preventing the full 
descent of another dark age. It was 
bad enough now, but without the 
protection of Custody — 

Even Twentieth Century men who 
studied the complex patterns of his- 
toric cycles had seen that such an age 
was coming. Tire signs of increasing 
conformity, mass fads, surrender of 
individual rights and anti-intellectu- 
alism had all been there. The pen- 
dulum of history swung from Hel- 
lenism through Rome to the Middle 
Ages, then back through the Renais- 
sance to the Revolution of Science, 
while excesses of folly or brutality 
at the extremes repeatedly proved 
ruinous. 

Now, with too much tech- 
nology, tlie risk of another relapse 

76 



into neofeudal power thinking was 
unthinkable, as the brief horrors of 
the final wars had proved. 

Out of desperation, the Custody 
had been created after those wars. 
Progress must go on, though many 
of the new discoveries would have 
to be restricted to the few who could 
accept them safely. Every scrap of 
sociological knowledge must be usctl 
to control the coming darkness and 
prepare for the needed smooth tran- 
sition to another age of advance- 
ment. This time, intellectual apathy 
must not be accompanied by the 
physical brutality of constant power 
struggles. The Institute was founded 
to select a few suitable Fellows, with 
one of their number chosen for a 
single term each twenty years as 
World Custodian. Originally, the 
office had been chiefly advisory, but 
time and the follies of local rulers 
had turned it into the effective gov- 
ernment of the world. 

The town beyond the Institute 
showed that the theory was working, 
too. Old and overcrowded, there w.is 
still a measure of law and sanitation. 
The people were dulled and crushed 
under a self-imposed burden of 
tradition, superstition and disregard 
of human values. They were only 
too willing to be relieved of their 
problems by handing over all their 
rights to anyone who would rule. 
But through the control of Custody, 
their rights had never been com- 
pletely abandoned. There had been 
no return of serfdom, incjuisitions, 
torture chambers or crusades. 

No matter what his computer 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



showed, Mark had to trust in the 
integrity of the custodian. 

The tavern was almost deserted, 
and a sign announced that the kitch- 
en was closed. Mark found a table 
and waited while the barman fin- 
ished some argument with the sin- 
gle waiter about horoscopes, tlien 
gave his order for yeastburger and 
beer. One of the tavern girls stuck 
her tattooed face over the balcony, 
recognized him, and went back to 
her room. I'inal week was always 
bad for llic shops that lived off the 
students. 

When the food finally came, it 
was almost as tough as his thoughts. 
He still couklii't understand the 
secret filing of the report. 11 it 
were only of academic interest, as 
Grisholm had sajd, there was no 
reason for any restriction on it. The 
only justification for hiding such 
work that he could see had to lie 
in the ridiculous stories spread by 
the Ruddies; since they were im- 
possible, the whole thing was non- 
sense. 

His brown study was interrupted 
by a voice beside him. "Mind if I 
join you, Mark?” 

He looked up to see a slim young 
man in a Fellowship mask dropping 
into the opposite seat. It took a 
minute to recognize that it was 
Northrup. He hadn’t meant to see 
the man, but it was too late to avoid 
him now. Mark grunted something 
that might pass for a greeting, re- 
senting the need for speech. 

That need was removed tempo- 



rarily as the waiter rushed over, 
bowing obsequiously before the new^ 
arrival. "Compliments of the house, 
your Fellowship,” he announced. A 
sparklingly clean glass and a bottle 
of wine seemed to spring into exis- 
tence on the table. "Shall I open 
the kitchen, your Fellowship? The 
filet will take only a little time.” 
"Anything for you, Mark?” 
Northrup asked. He’d been a Fellow 
for two years, long enough to take 
the advantages for granted. The 
waiter turned to face Mark now, 
showing a mixture of apology and 
accusation for not having been 
warned of Mark’s important friend. 

Mark sliook his head, and North- 
mp shrugged. "Just coffee for .me, 
waiter. I was trying to get in touch 
with you, son.” 

"Letty told me,” Mark admitted. 
He hated being called son by a man 
only a few years older. That name 
had been reserved for Uncle Will’s 
use. "I didn’t expect to sec you here, 
though.” 

Northrup grinned casually. "I saw 
you coming this way and followed. 
Nothing else to do. I got tired of 
watching the new Fellows trying to 
get over the .shock of passing.” 

"I suppose making Fellow didn’t 
mean a thing to you?” Mark asked. 
Nortlirup’s manner galled him more 
than it usually did. 

"Hell, not much. I made sure I’d 
have an angle that would , get me 
the degree. I knew I’d make it, so 
why get all excited over it?” 

"Must be nice to have a sure line 
of research !” 



DIVINE EIGHT 



77 




it being enough. I was figuring the 
custodian would get me passed after 
I fixed up his dog. Oh, forget it. 
I didn’t come here to brag. Mark, 
I've got a proposition for you.” 

He leaned forward, the smile 
slipping from his lips, while the 
visible part of his face took on an 
almost fatherly look. 'Tve stumbled 
on an idea Gflsholm’s crazy about — 
so good it means pure research with 
no administrative work. I want you 
to help me with it, son! It means 



Northrup had his original doctor- 
ate in brain histology, as Mark re- 
membered. He’d been doing Fellow- 
ship work on something about the 
physical mechanism for storing 
memories. 

Now his grin deepened. "Maybe 
I’d have made it on the research. 
I pretty well proved that the human 
brain can hold a thousand times 
more than anybody figured — enough 
for a thousand lifetimes and plenty 
to spare. But I wasn’t counting on 



78 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



top pay — and at least some chance 
for an honorary Fellowship some 
day! More than you can expect 
anywhere else!” 

That wouldn’t be hard, Mark 
realized. He wasn’t ready for the 
usual work open to an educated 
sterile male. He might get a job in 
Data Reduction at a local Custody 
branch, with a minor administrative 
post in twenty years. Or some local 
prince might take him under pa- 
tronage, since he’d attended the 
Institute — though no sterile man 
could marry his way into the gov- 
erning lines, of course. Or he could 
take the vows and retire to a Cus- 
tody Archive, if they’d have him. 
Northrup’s offer sounded much too 
good — suspiciously so. 

"Thanks, but I haven’t officially 
failed yet,” he reminded the other. 
He fumbled momentarily, hunting 
for a way out of the need of a 
decision. "What’s your new project 
got to do with the custodian’s dog?” 

Northrop laughed. "Nothing, of 
course. That was just insurance on 
getting a degree, before I ever 
thought of the project. But you 
know about the dogs?” 

Everyone knew about them, of 
course. For as long as could be 
remembered, each custodian had 
carried on the tradition of having 
two large dogs with him at all times 
in preference to other bodyguards. 
There were groups of legends about 
the remarkable intelligence such 
dogs developed. 

"Well, I was lucky. One of his 
mutts got run over badly when I 



was near enough to reach it. So I 
found a young dog and switched 
brains. Any good brain man could 
have done it, but most of them 
won’t touch animals, of cours^ So 
the custodian was properly grateful, 
and here I am in my mask.” 

"That operation — it can be done 
to human brains?” Mark asked 
thickly. He could feel the pulse 
drumming in his throat, like tlie 
sudden ugly tlirob of suspicion in 
his mind. He reached for his beer 
to cover his reaction, but his hands 
shook as he lifted the glass. 

Northrop seemed not to notice. 
"Why not? They developed it in 
the final wars. Tricky work, but no 
more impossible than grafting skin 
from person to person. Brains don’t 
store well, but we sometimes get 
accident cases where we make the 
switch.” His lips curled in sudden 
amusement. "Probably that’s the 
source of those Ruddy immortality 
lies. They seem to think grafting 
on a young body will rejuvenate an 
old brain.” 

"It doesn’t?” 

"Of course not, son. Or maybe it 
does, a little, but not enough to 
matter. I read somewhere they tried 
to make it work that way, once, but 
nothing came of it. A good thing, 
too. Make everyone start hunting 
bodies and where’d the race get?” 
Northrop finished his coffee and got 
to his feet. "Well, think over my 
offer. If you don’t wangle the de- 
gree, look me up.” 

"I’ll do that. And thanks, North- 
rop,” Mark told him with careful 

79 



DIVINE RIGHT 



friendliness. He watched the Fellow 
move toward the door, where the 
waiter was hastening to open the 
way for him. Then, after a decent 
wait, he left his bill and tip and 
headed back to the Institute. 

He knew what he had to do now. 
The thoughts in his mind made him 
sick, but there was too much evi- 
dence now to be dismissed. The 
ability to transplant brains fitted too 
well with . the ancient rumors, the 
evidence on his computer, and the 
hiding of the one method which 
might end such doubts. Northmp 
had indicated that no immortality 
could come of an operation, and 
Mark prayed he was right, but too 
many impossible things had already 
been done; rejuvenation couldn’t be 
completely ruled out as long as se- 
crets could be locked away so easily 
at the custodian’s desire. 

This time he locked the door after 
entering his laboratory, contrary to 
his usual practice. The box of ma- 
terial from Central Files had been 
delivered, he saw with relief. Most 
of it would be useless in the time 
he probably had, but what he needed 
should be there. He pawed through 
it hastily, scanning the titles on the 
reels of tape, then nodded. The tape 
of custodians’ speeches through the 
centuries was there; he’d meant to 
use it as his final triumph, to end 
the rumors forever. Now — 

He ripped the tape from the can 
and fed it into the reader on the 
computer, picking out thousand- 
word sections for each of the custo- 

80 



dians at random. Twenty-one of the 
twenty-three who had served were 
represented. The computer clucked 
away, filing the sections in its mem- 
ory circuits and beginning the com- 
plicated analysis needed to break 
down the individuality of each 
writer. 

Now doubts crept back as he sat 
waiting for the results. Negative- 
evidence might prove nothing, since 
many great men had used jsrofes- 
sional ,men to write their speeches; 
traditionally, the custodian wrote his 
own copy, but tlicre was no proof 
of that. Also there was no sure way 
to estimate what changes miglit 
occur in an individual who I i veil 
through centuries of time. I le'tl 
been naive to think he couKl jnove 
anything. Maybe tlic custodian luul 
been right in storing the method in 
the secret file. 

Then iinally the machine began 
spilling out its answers. Mark 
copied them, one below another, as 
they appeared. At first inspection, 
there seemed no exact correlation. 
But as Mark studied the rows of 
.symbols more closely, his last doubts 
vanished. 

Frona speech to speech, except for 
the two oldest custodians, there were 
too many similarities. The differences 
were only slightly greater than those 
between a man’s normal earliest and 
latest writing, and those were prob- 
ably caused by outside help with 
the first drafts. There was no ques- 
tion of continuity in Mark’s mind 
as he finished. 

For four hundred years, the same 
ASTOUNDING SCIKNCE FICTION 



man had occupied tiic palace of 
the custodian! The twenty-year limi- 
tation had become a mockery. And 
the office that was to lead the world 
back to a better future had been 
corrupted into tlie greatest seizure 
of power in all history. 

It was a monstrous joke on hu- 
manity. And it could only be the end 
of all their hopes. An immortal, long 
since skilled in getting only himself 
re-elected, with centuries in which 
to establish his absolute control! A 
man who would never be so foolish 
as to give up any of that power by 
letting humanity regain the lost love 
of freedom. A man to whom the 
status quo meant the best of all 
worlds, however bad it might be 
for those under him! 

For a second, Mark sat with the 
damning evidence in his hands, while 
fear and sickness washed over him. 
He should destroy it at once, of 
course. It was no business of his. 
Even without Fellowship, there was 
Northrup’s offer. Whatever the cus- 
todian might be would have no effect 
on his life. As for the future — well, 
what had a sterile man to worry 
about that? Tliere’d be none of his 
blood in the generations that would 
suffer for this ! 

But the picture of one man liv- 
ing forever in a world where nearly 
a quarter of the population was 
denied even racial immortality was 
too monstrous. Mark stood up ab- 
ruptly, shoving the reel of tape and 
his answers into a small brief case, 
along with the carbon of his re- 
search paper. It was evidence against 



the fraudulent practice of Custody, 
and somehow it must be used. 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. 
As long as nobody could prove im- 
mortality was possible, this could be 
explained away by any clever man: 
Proscribed ritual that made all Cus- 
todial writing identical — any of a 
hundred explanations. And the an- 
swer to how it was done would lie 
stored away in the secret files where 
nobody could find it. The only final 
proof would have to come from one 
of the half hundred men on Earth 
who had the secret of those files — 
and no man in such a position would 
give up his power for any idle 
dream of integrity; in four hundred 
years, the custodian would have 
learned how to pick his men better 
than that! 

Mark didn’t even know which 
Fellows were trusted, except for the 
custodian himself and Dean Gris- 
holm. 

Grisholm’s scanner! And it hadn’t 
been cut off, as far as Mark could 
remember. The dean had released the 
indexer, but he’d left without re- 
moving his key or switching off 
power. In the case of an ordinary 
scanner, it would still be working. 
It seemed incredible that it should 
have been left open to the secret 
files, yet most of the older Fellows 
grew careless in the confidence their 
positions inspired. 

Only a fool would risjc, pt, Mark 
knew. There might be an alarm 
that would be triggered after an 
automatic cutoff. The whole office 



DIVINE RIGHT 



81 



mis'ht be a trap, once the dean left 
it, and no explanation would account 
for his entering. For that matter, the 
cleaning staff had probably locked 
up after themselves. Unless the pri- 
vate elevator would open for him, 
his chances of getting in were pretty 
weak. Yet somehow he knew he had 
to try it. 

He hastily crammed sheets of 
self-printing paper into his bag and 
stepped cautiously into the hall, al- 
ready feeling a thickness in his 
tln-oat at what he planned. Every- 
thing seemed deserted, even to the 
booth where Letty worked. He heard 
the cleaning staff busy somewhere 
above him, but they had already 
worked their way down from the 
upper floors. He moved through the 
empty halls, feeling that a Custody 
policeman was staring at him from 
e\ery corner. 

There was still no sign of a 
guard when he reached the elevator 
door, however. He pressed the but- 
ton that was w'orked into the orna- 
mental scroll, holding his breath, 
ready to run at the sound of an 
ahirm. The door opened quietly, to 
reveal the little cage waiting. It 
closed silently as he touched the 
top button, and the elevator began 
rising smoothly. A few seconds later, 
he stood in the darkened office. 

He’d forgotten that there would 
be no lights, or that he couldn’t 
switch them on without the danger 
of attracting attention. Then, as his 
eyes adjusted, he saw that some 
illumination came through a transom 
from the hall. He listened again 

82 



for the cleaning staff and fumbled 
his way to the scanner. He could hear 
his blood pounding in his ears now, 
and his hands were slippery and cold 
as he reached carefully for the in- 
dexer control. There was still time 
to back out. 'With luck, he could 
leave without being seen. Then it 
was too late as his finger pressed 
down on the button. 

There was no alarm he could hear. 
Light came on, softly illuminating 
the panel, and the index began slid- 
ing by slowly. It was too short for 
the general index, indicating that it 
was still adjusted to the secret 
files ! 

He speeded it up, passing through 
the alphabet to "I.” Identification — ■ 
he hesitated at that, then went on; 
illusion, immaculation; immortality. 
He pressed for subheadings, waiting 
until Means to achieve. 

There were seven listings under 
that ! He took them in order of dates. 
The oldest was for suspended anima- 
tion, and he rejected it quickly as 
being effectively useless. Then there 
was one that produced continuous 
growth as a side effect. The third 
seemed to have nothing to do with 
the subject. 

He started to reject it, then hesi- 
tated; it would be a logical step 
to bury the real method in such ap- 
parent irrelevancy. He skimmed 
through the report, which dealt with 
a sort of electronic educator; it was 
a development of the idea of the 
hypnophone - encaphaloscriber, de- 
signed to force knowledge directly 
from the mind of the teacher to that 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



of the student or students. Appar- 
ently any amount of knowledge could 
be passed on in that way. 

Remembering the long years and 
effort that had gone into his own 
education, Mark grimaced bitterly. 
Here, potentially, lay the answer to 
educating the whole race out of their 
slump. The new dark ages could 
have been ended almost at once. Yet 
it lay buried in the files, kept from 
use by the custodian who had been 
appointed to further the ending of 
man’s relapse! 

But it had nothing to do with 
the subject. He puzzled over that, 
looking for some clue, until the very 
end of tire paper. There, in a brief 
summary, the researcher had indi- 
cated that through the use of the 
machine, knowledge might be made 
traly immortal. It was the sort of 
thing that had made cross-indexing 
so complicated that only electronic 
machines could handle it. Mark 
shoved the reject button and went 
on to the next entry. 

He bent forward sharply at the , 
title of the paper and began skim- 
ming it rapidly. There was no doubt 
now. This was the answer to North- 
rup’s objections — a method of in- 
suring the rejuvenation of brain 
tissue through multiple transplanta- 
tion ! 

He began copying it now, using 
the self-printing paper he had 
brought, no longer bothering to read. 
He had his proof — a ghastly proof 
that meant the death of three brains 
each time the custodian was reju- 
venated, since they obviously would 



not be replaced in other bodies to 
threaten exposure through their 
horror-won knowledge. Four hun- 
dred years of immortality, won by 
the butchering of how many other 
men? What sort of a monster must 
the custodian be by now? 

Mark’s hands were shaking as he 
stuffed the sheets of copy into his 
brief case. He zipped it closed and 
reached for the indexer, to leave it 
as it had been. His finger touched 
the button, and then stopped, while 
cold shock washed over him. 

The pages on the screen were 
gone. In their place, pale eyes stared 
out through a silver mask, while a 
pair of amused lips opened like a 
cat about to hiss at a captured mouse. 
The symbol on the mask was that 
of the custodian! 

Mark hit the button frantically, 
but the face remained on the screen. 
And now there was a voice from a 
speaker somewhere inside the ma- 
chine. "Mark Saxon, I believe? My 
guards are on their way to escort 
you to me. You’ll make things much 
simpler by waiting quietly for them. 
It seems we have a few things to 
discuss.’’ 

The face vanished and the screen 
went dark. For a second, Mark stood 
paralyzed. Tlien he grabbed his bag 
and darted for the private elevator. 
However slim his chances, he had 
to try to escape, at least until he 
could spread his information! 'Tlie 
door seemed to take forever to open, 
and the little cage hardly seemed to 
move as he started downward. But 



DIVINE RIGHT 



83 



if they didn’t know he was using it, 
it might improve his chances. 

He studied the row of buttons, 
counting them. The number indi- 
cated that the elevator ran to the 
subbasement of the Institute, rather 
than just to the ground floor, and 
he pushed the lowest one. Like most 
of the students, he’d spent some 
time in the lower basements during 
the first-year period of hazing. 

From outside the shaft, there was 
the sound of hard heels pounding 
across the entrance hall. The guards 
must have arrived. If they tried to 
use the private elevator — ■ 

But apparently they hadn’t been 
told of that. The cage dropped 
downwards, while the commotion 
above faded. Then the door was 
opening, and the dank smell of the 
basement hit his nostrils. For the 
moment, he seemed to have eluded 
pursuit. It wouldn’t matter in the 
long run. He was sick with the 
knowledge tliat he could have no 
hope of escaping the search of the 
custodian for more than a few days, 
and that his attempts might only 
make whatever horror faced him 
even worse. But a queer determina- 
tion carried him on. 

Fie twisted through the maze of 
the basement, looking for something 
he could identify. Finally, one cor- 
ridor number placed him, and he 
nodded. He’d followed it before, 
escaping a hazing party, and he knew 
the way now. He could only hope 
that no guards were waiting at the 
end, where it connected with the 
subway tunnels. 

84 



He was in luck. There were no 
guards, and one of the irregular eve- 
ning trains was already in the sta- 
tion as he dashed across it, running 
for the nearer of the two cars. The 
door clattered shut behind him and 
the train rumbled away. Around 
him, a group of citizens stared at 
his tattoo with hard eyes, then spot- 
ted his student insignia, and went 
on with their conversation. Appar- 
ently they were on their way to break 
up a group of Ruddies whose hide- 
out had been spotted. The Custody 
frowned on torturing the malcon- 
tents beyond certain limits, but the 
men were fingering their clubs fond- 
ly in anticipation of the fun to 
come. 

Mark considered the Ruddies, but 
his mind rejected the idea of joining 
them almost at once. Officially, they 
were permitted as a necessary enemy 
for the citizenry to feel superior to; 
their presence made it easy to chan- 
nel off some of the normal animos- 
ity of the times from more danger- 
ous subjects. Actually, they served 
as a convenient place for the plant- 
ing of informers, and Mark’s pres- 
ence among them would probably 
be reported almost at once. 

He shoved his way out at the 
third stop. He couldn’t return to his 
room, but he had to have some place 
to organize himself. The only place 
he could think of was the basement 
of Letty’s house, where they had 
set up the equipment for the effort 
to finish his work. It had a type- 
writer and copying supplies he’d 
need, at least. 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



He found a newsstand still open 
and picked up copies of the local 
paper and four others from neigh- 
boring principalities. As a university 
city, Aurora was more cosmopolitan 
than most towns. The five weren’t 
enough, of course, but it was a start. 
Somehow, he had to find the ad- 
dresses of every paper he could, since 
his only hope of getting his story 
released was to hit every publication 
and hope that one editor would take 
a chance. If he could get the facts 
before even a few hundred of the 
more intelligent citizens anywhere, 
Custody might never be able to sup- 
press it completely. 

Letty’s house was dark when he 
reached it, as he had expected. Un- 
like human values, material things 
were treated with respect in this age 
of falling living standards, and 
electric bulbs were never burned 
uselessly among the citizenry. He 
debated waking her, then abandoned 
the idea; it would be better for her 
if she could honestly deny knowing 
he was tlicre. He unlocked the en- 
trance and went in, pulling down 
the heavy shutters before turning on 
one light. He opened the local paper, 
searching for the masthead page. At 
the Institute, he’d never bothered 
with papers, since the local news 
was no concern of his. 

The editor’s name and the address 
was there. And below it was a line 
in darker type: "Published under 
direction of Fellow J. A. Mannheim, 
for the Custody.” 

Mark swore, and grabbed for the 



other papers, but all had similar 
notices ! 

He should have guessed — or 

known; the control of all sources 
of information by the custodian was 
hardly a secret. But the old catch- 
words about freedom of the press 
had clouded the issue, and he’d 
never even looked at a masthead 
before. Probably most readers didn’t. 
There was no point now in sending 
out his facts, the censor would kill 
them at once. 

Letters to individuals? He knew 
no one outside research circles, 
where all their interests lay with the 
Custody. His chance of finding even 
one reader of the few circulars he 
could send out who would do more 
than turn his material over to the 
authorities was almost nonexistent. 

He was hopelessly blocked at in- 
forming the world. The custodian’s 
grip was too secure. But there was 
one other method — 

A faint sound brought him 
around in a nerve-tensed leap. 

Letty stood at the head of the 
worn stairs, her hand on the knob 
and her back to him. Then, as she 
heard him, she turned to face him, 
and her smile was as thin as the 
worn gown she had slipped on. 
"Mark! I thought' you were a 
prowler ! Wait till I get some clothes 
on and I’ll bring you some cof- 
fee.” 

"What did they report over tele- 
vision, Letty?” he asked as quietly 
as he could. 

Surprisingly, she seemed relieved 
at the chance to admit that she’d 



DIVINE RIGHT 



85 



heard about him. Some of the worry 
evaporated from her face. "Just that 
you'd had a breakdown — worry 
about your degree. That we should 
report you for treatment before it 
gets worse. Mark, I know how you 
must have felt. Anybody'd break 
down. But they want to help you. 
Why don’t — ’’ 

"I don’t want their help,” he 
told her. "There’s nothing wrong 
with me, Lctty.’’ 

She sighed heavily, her hand hov- 
ering on the doorknob. Then she 
nodded, and the tight smile returned. 
"All right, Mark. But you look tired. 
Come on up and we can . . . wc 
can talk about it while you get some 
rest. You’ll feel better then." 

"I feel fine,” he repeated. "I 
didn’t break down over the degree. 
Lctty, you know me better tlian lh.it. 
Hell, I even had a job offer from 
Northrop. Come away from that 
door !” 

"All right. Why don’t you tell 
me all about it?” She came down 
a few steps. 

He nodded, grimly. "You askcil 
for it. But you won’t like it. I found 
two men with the same individuality 
formula. Two separate men, 
Lctty—’’ 

Her sudden nervous laughter cut 
off his words. She choked it back 
at once, trying to put sympathy onto 
her face. "Is that all? Mark, I’m 
sorry. We tried to keep it from you, 
of course. I guess we let one case 
slip tlirough. But you don’t have to 
worry about it. We never meant to 
tell the dean. I suppose it was a 

8G 



shock, finding it and thinking he 
might know. But I’ve helped a lot 
of students with their work. Who 
cares about a few little details, when 
you’ve got so much good work to 
show? 'Toil don’t think all that stuff 
about science is anything but a test 
of how clever you are, do you? Why, 
I know once when the dean him- 
self — ’’ 

"Letty,” he interrupted her flow 
of words. He’d never doubted her 
normal attitude toward science, and 
the familiarity of it hail helped break 
his first shocked reaction. "Lctty, 
wliat did you do with the duplicates 
the card sorter turned up?” 

She indicated a box on one of 
the tables. "I’ve got more upstairs. 
I’ll get them,” .she offered. 

"No dice,” he told her. 

She .screamed as lie caught licr, 
and llieii went limp. As lie tied licr 
up and gagged her loosely, she didn’t 
even struggle. He carried her up- 
stairs, placing her in the first room 
he could find, aware that she could 
make her way to a window and 
summon help eventually. 

There were a couple dozen sets 
of duplicates when he went through 
the box and checked with the files. 
Most were cases that were easily 
recognized as having one member 
who was already listed as being 
dead. Immortality, it seemed, wasn’t 
confined to the custodian! Quite a 
few Fellows had been granted the 
boon. It must make for a nice, tight 
clique; and it helped to explain how 
someone could be found to perform 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 




the operation. One of the duplicates 
was Northrop. 

Then he stared in amazement at 
another. The formula for Dean 
Grisholm was identical with that 
from the custodian’s first policy 
speech ! 

He tried to picture the face under 
the mask on the scanner; it had 
seemed to be a thin face, while his 
whole impression of the dean was 
one of pudginess. But the fat could 
be simuflesh, and the mask and beard 
had hid his face completely. It could 
be the same man, leading a double 
life. It had to be, according to the 
formula here. Certainly it miglit have 
advantages, and both the dean and 
the custodian were known to be 
isolated by their work for long 
periods. 

No wonder Grisholm had been 
amused. It must have been scream- 
ingly funny to him to have Mark 
appeal over his head to himself ! 

He heard Letty dragging clumsily 
along tlie floor as he passed toward 
her phone, using a flashlight to find 
it. 

But he’d have time enough be- 
fore she could attract attention. He 
blanked the viewing pickup and 
dialed, hoping his memory of the 
number he’d been given months 
before was correct. 

Apparently, it was. Northrup’s 
face looked out of the screen, regis- 
tering surprise at seeing no face in 
his own. 

"This is Mark Saxon,” Mark told 
him. "You may have heard that I’m 
in a jam?” 



DIVINE RIGHT 



87 



"Hi, son. Sure, I heard. What 
really happened.^ You’re no nearer 
breakdown than I am.” 

"Of course not. I found an angle 
to get my Fellowship, that’s all. I 
had to act a little peculiar.” If 
Northnip knew what had happened, 
he’d probably assume Mark was try- 
ing to use blackmail against the cus- 
todian, which should fit the apparent 
level of ethics of a man who’d 
sacrifice others for his own existence. 
"But I need a little time before 
I can get in touch with the custo- 
dian’s office. And I’d like to discuss 
it with you first.” 

"If I can assure you I won’t call 
the authorities first, I suppose?” 
Northrop guessed. 

"No chance. I’ve got to trust 
someone, and you’re my only hope. 
Know where Letty lives?” He 
paused while the other nodded, 
then tried to act as if making up 
his mind. 'Til be there in about 
half an hour. Her basement. I’ve 
been working there. And don’t let 
her see you come up.” 

He hung up without waiting for 
an answer. Northrop lived less than 
ten minutes away by car, and Letty’s 
position was just high enough to 
entitle her to a two-seater. He found 
it in the tiny garage, shorted the 
ignition, and wheeled it out, grate- 
ful for the few times when his Uncle 
Will had let him drive, during a trip 
they had made. Nobody would ex- 
pect a student to operate a car — 
particularly when the escaping stud- 
ent was heading back toward the 
Institute. 



It was only seven minutes later 
when he buzzed at Northrup’s door. 
"Mark,” he called softly. "I changed 
my mind.” 

There was a rustle inside, but no 
sound of a phone being lifted. A few 
seconds later, the door released and 
the Fellow motioned him in. "I was 
just getting ready to leave, Mark. 
Come on in. Grab a drink over 
there. You look as if you need it.” 
Mark took it gratefully. He was 
traveling on the ragged edge of his 
nervous energy now. 

"What’s all the dope?” Nortbrup 
asked. "If you’re going to trust me, 
there’s no point in stalling, son.” 
Mark dug the proper material 
from his case. "It's nasty,” he warn- 
ed the other. "Fve got proof, 
though. First, this shows that brain 
transplanting can bring immortality. 
And you know something of my 
work, don’t you? Then you’ll have 
to take my word that Dean Grisholm 
is actually the same as a custodian 
who lived a hundred years ago! If 
I can get that information to the 
custodian, don’t you think it de- 
serves a Fellowship?” 

"If you’re right, it should,” 
Northrop admitted. "Why not take 
it to him?” 

"I’d never get to him. The dean 
has me pegged for the booby hatch.” 
Northrop nodded and took the 
papers over to the light, as if to 
study them carefully. The weight in 
his pocket might have been a gun, 
but he seemed to be disarmed enough 
to have forgotten it. The story was 
close enough to the truth for him 



88 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



to accept, and he’d probably be only 
too glad to arrange for Mark to 
meet the custodian directly. 

"Uncle Will!" Mark called softly. 

Northrup turned casually. "Yeah, 
son.^’’ 

Then shock hit his face. His hand 
groped for the pocket where the gun 
must be, but he was too late. Mark 
was across the room, his big body 
striking the smaller man and bounc- 
ing him back over a table into a 
crumpled heap. 

Mark yanked his jacket up over 
his head, pinioning his arms, until 
the gun had been transferred. Then 
he released the Fellow. 

Northrup siglicd and dropped 
into a chair, reaching for liis half- 
finished drink. "So you found out? 
Smart boy. I always knew you were." 
His voice had altered in tone, sound- 
ing more like Mark’s adopted uncle 
now. "Your uncle ... I didn’t really 
desert you. There was an inoperable, 
unsuspected hepatoma, already me- 
tastasizing. The Hermitage retire- 
ment was to permit this . . . well, 
this continuation.’’ 

"At the cost of three other lives!” 

"No, Mark. You’re wrong about 
that. Was your uncle the sort of 
monster that would make him? Was 
he, son?” He leaned back, reaching 
for his drink again. "Look, you’re 
right , about a lot of things. But 
you’re wrong, too. Suppose I tell you 
what really happened. It’s even — 
Wait!” 

Mark wasn’t waiting while the 
other stalled until the guards checked 
back here. The gunbutt slapped 



against Northrup’s temple, bring- 
ing almost instant unconscionsness. 
It shouldn’t have mattered, but he 
bent over to check the other’s heart; 
somehow its firm beating made him 
feel better. The one killing he had 
to do was enough to worry about. 

He dialed the palace, making no 
attempt to blank the screen this 
time. Ten seconds after he identified 
himself, he was looking at the silver 
mask and smiling lips of the cus- 
todian, telling the same story he’d 
told Northrup, but substituting an- 
other Fellow for the dean as the im- 
mortal conspirator. It sounded^ pretty 
thin, since the custodian should have 
known all such facts himself, with 
the files at his command. But he 
was hoping the man would put it 
down to his own bad logic. 

Apparently it worked. The custo- 
dian nodded. "If you’re right, of 
course. I’ll excuse your illegal acts. 
And I’ve already decided to, accept 
your work as proof of Fellowship 
rating. Where can my men ■ . . or 
I . . . meet you?” 

"I’ll call tomorrow noon,.’i’ Mark 
told him. "I’ve got a hideout,! trust, 
and I’m almost dead from .fatigue. 
Besides, I want to see my name on 
Dean Grisholm’s list of graduates 
in the paper tomorrow, so I.’U know 
you mean it.” 

The lips under the mask firmed, 
and then relaxed again. "All right, 
Saxon. I can always cancel.; it, if 
you don’t call. Only keep this to 
yourself!” 

Mark hung up, and turned back 
to Northrup. He found the keys 



DIVINE KIGIIT 



89 



to , the Fellow’s car in one pocket. 
Then he stripped off the mask and 
put it on. It was what he had come 
here for — his passport to the inner 
sanctum of the Institute; the death 
penalty for wearing it wouldn’t mat- 
ter to him now, probably — and might 
help in preventing anyone suspect- 
ing. He carried Northrop with him 
gently to the bigger and newer car 
and drove away. He was probably 
being a fool again, but it would 
only take a few seconds to drop the 
man off where he would be found 
by the night patrol and taken in for 
care. 

It was almost an hour later when 
he drove through the gate of the 
Institute and into the parking lot. 
He had driven about slowly, trying 
to check his plans and be sure of 
every step. Too much still depended 
on luck, but he could find nothing 
better. 

He left the car and began walking 
rapidly toward the little house of 
Dean Grisholm. Above his head, 
the mockery of hope still shone on 
the masked figure of Minerva, and 
the palace of the custodian lay only 
a little farther away. 

Gaining entrance there would be 
easy^ — but useless. No ordinary Fel- 
low could get through the guards 
and underlings. Within minutes, he 
would be picked up and rendercti 
helpless. But the house of the dean 
was another matter. A Fellow mov- 
ing toward it would be accepted, 
particularly on the morning before 
the publication of the Fellowship 

90 



lists; there could be any kind of last- 
minute business from the Institute. 
And the dean had neither guards nor 
assistants in constant attendance. 
His immunity to danger lay in the 
fact that he seemed of no great im- 
portance. Only a man who knew he 
was also the custodian would offer 
any risk, and he must feel his tracks 
were covered. 

Of course, he might not be there. 
But he would have to be seen 
coming from the house in the early 
morning, on his way to his ollice 
to deliver the official list of success- 
ful students. Not to do so would be 
highly unusual, and there was no 
reason why he should avoid it. If 
the house were empty now, Mark 
could wait. 

He considered the two servants, 
and shook his head. Their h.ibit of 
leaving each night must be legiti- 
mate; Grisholm wouldn’t w.int any- 
one around when he slipped back 
and forth, probably. 

The only problem was getting in. 
But that shouldn't be too difficult. 
There were windows leading into a 
basement of some sort, and it was 
a period house, made to look at 
home in the gardens anil parkland 
around it — it must use the antit]uc 
wooden frames that Uncle Will had 
been fond of. Removing the putty 
and points from that was no prob- 
lem. 

It was easier than that, as it turned 
out. The basement windows weren’t 
even locked. Mark considered it 
doubtfully, but it fitted the careless- 
ness about the scanner and elevator. 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



He made sure the gun was free in 
his pocket, then slid in. Shielding 
the flash, he located the steps from 
what seemed to be a recreation 
room and headed up them. 

Everything was silent on the first 
floor. Then his ears caught the faint 
sound of snoring! If the dean- 
custodian had already returned and 
gone to sleep, nothing could have 
been better. One single shot, and the 
world would be freed. There would 
still be the other immortals, but they 
must be split up to permit the cus- 
todian’s easy control of them; in the 
violent struggle for power that must 
follow the custodian's death, the 
whole sordid business could come 
out. At least, there was a chance 
this way. 

He hadn’t thought of what must 
h.ippcn to himself. He refused to 
think of it now. He located the 
door from which the sounds came, 
tried the knob, and found it unlock- 
ed. With his gun in one hand and 
(he flash in the other, he shoved 
forward. 

Blinding lights hit his eyes at 
once. Soemthing seemed to leap out 
of nowhere, and teeth raked his 
wrists, snapping over his hand and 
jarring the gun away from him. 
Then the lights dimmed until his 
shocked eyes could make out the 
form of one of the custodian’s dogs 
carrying the gun away from him. 
He’d forgotten about them! 

"Better sit down, Mark,’’- Gris- 
holm’s voice said, not unkindly. The 
man was standing across the room, 
smiling in amusement. "Let me look 



at that hand. Wolf tried to be gentle, 
I know, but he might have scratched 
the skin. Sit down ! And don’t try 
anything. These dogs are just as im- 
mortal as you think I am — they have 
enough experience to justify all 
those legends about their intelli- 
gence. Now, let’s see that hand.” 

Mark had dropped numbly into 
the chair behind him, unable to think 
or react. His mind was frozen in a 
circle of broken thoughts. His finger 
was still trying to push at the trigger 
he no longer felt. But some surprise 
registered as Grisholm’s hand caught 
his wrist and began examining it, 
before swabbing something on his 
skin. The pudgy hand felt real — 
there was no trace of simuflesh. 

"Northrup’s coming out of it,” 
another voice from the doorway said 
quietly. 

Mark’s eyes jerked up unbeliev- 
ingly. Standing there was a lean 
figure in a silver mask, and the 
voice was that of the custodian ! 

Mark’s voice was a hoarse whis- 
per. "Two of you! But — ” 

"But still the same man, in many 
ways,” Gri,sholm said. The dean 
dropped onto a couch beside the cus- 
todian, while the two dogs seemed 
to confer, watching Mark from the 
corner of their eyes. "Oh, you’re 
nearly right in a lot of ways, Mark. 
I’m actually the previous custodian 
■ — the one who supposedly went into 
Hermitage. What were your plans 
for me, anyhow? Blackmail?” 

"I was going to kill you! You 
filthy monster!” 



DIVINE RIGHT 



91 



Grisholm nodded happily. 'Tm 
glad of that, Mark. A better try than 
I'd hoped for, too. Not your fault 
it failed. In, this society, too few 
students have the mental flexibility 
to examine the hints of immortality 
v/e hand out. And the ones who 
do aren’t usually able to overcome 
their conditioning enough to realize 
the direct answer is the only possible 
one in this society. I’m glad you 
didn’t disappoint my faith in you.” 
"It won’t work,” Mark told him. 
He was trying to force cold anger 
over his confusion, but the best he 
could do was to imitate it. ”I can’t 
argue with four hundred years of 
cunning, but you can’t convince me. 
A trap like this for your students 
may be clever, but some day the 
world is going to be rid of you.” 
The custodian smiled faintly. 
"Almost my own words once. Mark, 
that’s a day I hope won’t come for 
centuries. No, I can’t convince you 
now, but your own logic would in 
time. Look at the governors of this 
world. They’re on the average some 
of our best stock. Can you imagine 
what one of them would do as 
custodian? Sooner or later, there 
would be an end to the original 
purpose; and then Custody would be 
the worst means of preserving the 
most undesirable features of our 
society — with the best belief that it 
was the right thing to do. If the 
original plan is to v/ork, the custo- 
dian has to be a man above the 
attitudes of this time.” 

Mark fought against the argument, 
while it slid under his guard, mixing 

92 



with his old childhood idea that the 
custodian must be greater than any 
man could be. Superficially, it made 
sense. But not when the man could 
pre.serve himself through the horror 
of all those rejuvenations. 

As if reading his thoughts, Gris- 
holm broke in. ’’There is no killing, 
Mark. You overlooked the means, 
though wo hoped you might under- 
stand when you spent time enougli 
to read it — while we watched 
through the scanner, of course! 1’he 
only practical method of immortality, 
such as it is, lies in the educator 
machine. It’s far more clTcctivc tlian 
the inventor thought, you sec. It’s 
capable of transferring a whole 
mind into the brain of the user. 
Northrop has the brain he was born 
with — but your uncle lives on in 
him. And, of course, that’s why 
there are two of us. It will work as 
often as desired. Mental immortality, 
Mark — not physical.” 

’’Think about it,” the custodian 
suggested. "A sterile man should 
realize what it means — the divine 
right denied him by his body can be 
taken over by his mind; he can 
effectively be his own children! 
Something too good for anything 
but the best brains of the age! And 
you’ve qualified. 'We aren’t offering 
you death or torture, but life\” 

”A nice promise to whip me into 
line! Do you think I’d trust you?” 
The custodian shrugged. "No, I 
suppose not. Here.” The gun lay 
on the table near him. Now he 
picked it up and handed it over. 
"Keep that, until you’re convinced. 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



Oh, I’m not worried about your 
having it — because your only chance 
for immortality lies with us. But if 
it makes you feel better, keep it 
trained on me until you know I’m 
sincere.” 

Mark’s fingers trembled as he 
took the gun. It was true — immor- 
tality, the dream of every man who 
had ever lived, was something they 
could give him. I lis mind could be 
driven into body after body, per- 
haps through all eternity. And they 
might have some way of proving 
that all this had been simply a 
qualifying test for that. 

He raised the gun in hands that 
were finally completely steady, point- 
ing it squarely at the custodian. Then 
his finger squeezed down savagely 
on the trigger! 

Nothing happened but a muted 
click. 

"I switched guns,” Grisholm told 
him, and the man’s lower face was 
beaming with a strange delight. "If 
you'd examincii it, you’d have seen 
the dilTcrcncc. If you hadn't fired, 
iiu idcntally, you’d have been given 
cxailly wliat wc promised — just as 
tile others who went that far with 
the test have received the gift, or 
will receive it. Now — ” 

'"Why’d you fire?” the custodian 
a.skcd. "'Why throw away a chance 
like that, Mark Saxon?” 

Mark fought to control the hys- 
teria that shock on top of shock was 
forcing him toward. He hadn’t 
thought. It hadn’t needed thought. 
Was there anything better in pos- 



sessing a whole brain and body than 
in simply removing the brain? Was 
the death of the donor of that brain 
any less real because he lived on 
physically when his personality died 
before the conquest of another and 
a machine? He struggled with 
words, trying to curse them while 
he told them what any decent man 
should realize — that such a gift was 
more horrible than any death — more 
horrible even than being used as the 
body and brain for such a gift to 
another. 

Grisholm nodded. "Which, of 
course, is what will happen to you 
now, Mark. We’d be foolish not 
to use such a brain somehow — and 
when coupled with enough stability 
to stand up under all this without 
cracking more than you have, you 
become invaluable to us. Still not 
sorry you tried to kill us?” 

He laughed at the answer, as if 
there were humor in the words. 
"Stubborn,” he commented to the 
custodian. "Well, if I’m to get any 
sleep before graduation listing, we’ve 
wasted enough time. Get on with 
it, Tom.” 

"It really isn’t horrible, Mark,” 
the custodian said quietly. "If I 
could convince you of what it really 
is like. I'd try. But I guess there’s 
no use arguing further.” 

His finger touched something on 
the table beside him, and there was 
a sudden whirr in the chair where 
Mark sat. Bands of metal had whip- 
ped around him painlessly, pinion- 
ing him to his seat. And a whirring 
over his head made him look up 



DIVINE EIGHT 



93 



to see something the size of a wash- 
tub lowering, automatically centering 
a skull-shaped depression over his 
head. A similar affair was descend- 
ing toward the custodian. 

"You!” He gasped with the 
realization. 

The custodian nodded. "Me, 
Mark. Because sixteen years from 
now, there must be a well-establi.shed 
successor to be appointed, just as 
Grisholm had me ready. It’s logical 
— it takes the best brain we can 
find for the job. But if it’s any 
consolation, it requires two whole 
years with this thing to make the 
fix permanent.” 

'That was the final horror. Two 
years of regular sessions, while his 
mind slowly faded and another took 
its place! Two years of knowing 
what was coming, and being unable 
to stop it! 

The dogs came over to stand be- 
side him. They weren’t needed. He 
wasn’t going to fight physically. 
He’d have to fight mentally, to 
drive back into his own mind, to 
find the death-wish that had to be 
in every brain. Somehow, he had 
to will himself to death before the 
real loss of himself could be finished. 
It was all he could do now to defeat 
this monstrous recruiting scheme. 

The larger dog licked his hand, 
whining something that sounded 
like words. Unconsciously, he reach- 
ed out to pat its head, wondering 
if it were the dog Northrup had 
saved. 

There was a soft chuckle in his 



mind, and words began to form in 
the silence around him. "I can read 
a little of your thought — there’s 
some leakage,” the custodian’s 
thoughts whispered along his nerves. 
"No, Mark. The story Northrup 
told you was simply part of the trap 
— because your uncle Will in him 
still loves you and had faith you 
could pass any test. May I come 
in?” 

And slowly, in spite of anything 
Mark could do, his mind entered 
Mark’s. But there was no taking 
over. It was as if a corner of (he 
brain expandal quietly, and another 
mind developed beside his own- a 
richer, surer mind, open to his. Tom 
Shaefer seemed to sigh in Mark’s 
head, accepting what he found with 
no horror for any secret there. Then 
there was a feeling of another pres- 
ence, somehow expanding out of the 
miml of Shaefer. 

"Sidney Grisholm,” Custodian 
Shaefer’s mind said, and seemed to 
move aside while Grisholm came 
chuckling into existence, to introduce 
another. It went on and on, until 
the single brain of Mark Saxon was 
a community of twenty-two others 
beside himself, including the great 
orator whose mind had written all 
their speeches. And still there was 
no crowding of the personality that 
was wholly, permanently Mark’s 
own. 

"It can’t be explained, Mark,” 
one of the others seemed to say. 
"It has to be felt. And so far, there 
is no limit to what those incredible 
cells of the human brain can stand. 



94 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



If Northrup is right, a thousand 
minds are not too much. But there 
is a price.” 

Then light hit his eyes again, and 
he was aware that the first hour was 
over, and that the helmets had been 
withdrawn. 

Slowly, the minds inside his own 
began to fade away, leaving him al- 
most alone, while his head seemed 
to split into a thousand shivering 
fragments. 

He took the pain-killer Grisholm 
held out, muttering his thanks. 
There would be two years of violent 
headaches, he knew. And during 
those years, the new minds inside 
his own would grow stronger until 
they were permanent, as much a part 
of himself as his own. 

Then there would be more years 
of headaches as he forced his brain 
to its limits to develop and master 
still more knowledge, to make him- 
self worthy to take over the Custody. 
1'hcy would never let him relax and 
coast on their abilities, but would 
drive him on, tiying to make him 
just a little better than they had 
been. 

"We're asking a lot of you,” the 
uistodian said aloud, while a faint 
ghost of his mind seemed to echo 
it in Mark’s brain. "Sometimes I 
wonder if we have the right to ask 
it of anyone. Maybe you’ll think 
we're the monsters you felt before, 
Mark, for putting you through it. 
You still have the right to refuse, 
if you want.” 



He turned the words over, con- 
sidering the price. It didn’t matter 
■ — as it hadn’t mattered to those 
other minds he had met. Man had 
always had duties and obligations, 
prices to pay, and misery to bear 
in the anguish of developing him- 
self. 

"Or the right to accept,” Gris- 
holm said. "But now you’d better 
get whatever rest you can. You’ll 
have to be ready to take your Fel- 
lowship with the others in the morn- 
ing, you know.” 

Fellowship! He tasted the word, 
nodding. The only real right lay 
there — the '•right men had dreamed 
of and striven for without any hope. 
It was the right to true Fellowship 
with the minds of others, the end 
to loneliness and fear. Immortality 
didn’t matter, save for the time it 
could give in the fellowship of other 
minds, and the increasing community 
of such minds it could bring. 

He stepped to the window for a 
last glimpse of Minerva facing and 
reaching for the dawn, and now the 
old inspiration was back. With the 
community of his mind linking to- 
gether and building in warmth and 
understanding, he could dream 
again, as other such communities of 
mind must be dreaming. With their 
number increasing and their dreams 
deepening, time no longer mattered. 

Some day the dawn would come, 
and there would be men ready for 
it. It was a dawn he might see in 
some mind or other — see and share! 



THE END 



DIVINE RIGHT 



95 



THE SEA URCHIN 
AND WE 



A sea urchin isn’t exactly smart ...but may- 
be we learned some mighty basic, and extremely 
important lessons from something even 
lowlier than the humble sea urchin of today! 

BY ISAAC ASIMOV 



In any free association test, the 
chances are appreciable that the 
word ‘'evolution” will evoke the 
response "fossils.” And fossil re- 
mains are usually of bones, teeth, 
shells, scales and other hard parts 
of a body. Evolution, as most of 
us think of it, is thus largely a 
history of morphological change — 
that is, changes in shape — of the 
hard parts of the body, plus what 
can be deduced therefrom — which 
is often precious little — about the 
soft parts. 

We’ve got the shape of the hard 
parts neatly categorized from the 
trilobite to the Neanderthal. We can 

96 



trace the steps in the morphological 
development of the horse, the ele- 
phant and man in a series of skeletal 
gradations. See any museum of natu- 
ral history. 

But think of the questions mor- 
phology can’t answer. Did Eohippus 
have any vitamin requirements the 
modern horse docs not have, or vice 
versa? Did Neanderthal man utilize 
his amino-acids in any way different- 
ly from us? What, precisely, was 
the clotting mechanism involved in 
the blood of Tyrannosaurus Rex? 

Barring time-travel, we’ll never 
know. But we might be able to 
make reasonable guesses, perhaps, 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



if we study and compare the bio- 
chemistry of the various living 
species that exist today. 

Biochemical evolution is less spec- 
tacular than morphological evolu- 
tion. A morphological invention 
such as wings has been made at least 
four independent times ■ — insects, 
pterodactyls, birds and bats — in four 
different styles, but biochemical in- 
ventions arc usually made once, or 
if more than once, then in identical 
style. The uses to which the various 
B vitamins are put were decided 
very early in the game and all liv- 
ing cells today, from bacteria to 
those of man, use them in the same 
way. There are many other examples 
of the biochemical uniformity of 
life despite tremendous morphologi- 
cal varialioiis. 

But uniformity isn’t universal. 
Biochemical differences among 
species do exist and then things 
become really interesting. 

Take the case of fat digestion 
among mammals. Fats are one of 
the major food components and an 
important body fuel. To be utilized 
by the body, the fatty substances in 
food must first be digested by the 
action of enzymes in the intestines. 
There is one catch. Fats are not 
.soluble in water and digestive fluids 
are mostly water. Fats will not be 
digested with anything approaching 
efiiciency unless something is done 
to enable them to mix with the 
watery digestive fluids. 

The answer is found in the liver 
secretion known as bile. The bile, 

THE SEA UKCHIN AND WE 



which is discharged into the small 
intestine, does not itself contain di- 
gestive enzymes but it does contain 
substances known as bile salts. The 
bile salts consist of molecules with 
double-jointed solubility properties. 
One half of the molecule is similar 
to fats in its structure and that half 
will dissolve in fats. The other half 
contains groups of atoms that are 
soluble in water. 

In order to satisfy both halves of 
itself, bile salt molecules group them- 
selves along the surface where fat 
and water meet. In this way, the fatty 
portion can face the fat and dis- 
solve in it, while the rest can face 
the water and dissolve there. Both 
halves of the molecule are happy. 
The more surface between fat and 
water that there is, the more bile 
salt molecules can be made happy. 
One way in which the amount of 
surface can be increased is to dis- 
tribute the fat through the water 
in the form of small bubbles. The 
smaller the bubbles, the more sur- 
face there is for a given weight of 
fat. The addition of bile salts to a 
mixture of water and fat thus en- 
courages the formation of such small 
bubbles. 

Bile salts are, in this manner, the 
body’s natural detergents. They 
homogenize fats in the intestines, 
and the tiny bubbles that result mix 
well with the watery digestive 
fluids and can be attacked by 
enzymes. 

There are two main varieties of 
bile salts, differing in the chemical 
structure of the water-soluble half. 

97 



In order to avoid going into the 
chemical details, we will simply call 
the two varieties the G-salts and the 
T-salts. Both exist in the biles of 
various animals. Both do their deter- 
gent job adequately. In one respect, 
though, tliey behave differently. 
There is a fatlike substance called 
cholesterol which the G-salts don’t 
seem to handle very well. The 
T-salts, however, homogenize cho- 
lesterol fine. 

Now, in general, herbivorous ani- 
mals — plant-eating — are particularly 
strong in G-salts and poor in 'I'-salts. 
This is all right because plants are 
less fatty on the whole than animals 
are and what plant fat does occur is 
quite poor in cholesterol. Now since 
the G-substance, out of which G- 
salts can be made, is present in 
quantity in all cells, whereas the 
T-substance is present in much 
smaller amounts, why bother manu- 
facturing T-salts that you can do 
without.^ So herbivorous animals 
stock up on G-.salts and do well. 

The animal fat, however, that 
forms part of the diet of carnivo- 
rous — meat-eating — animals is rich 
in cholesterol. The bile of carnivo- 
rous animals is rich in T-salts. 
Those animals need it and even 
though the T-salts are more difficult 
to scrounge up in ejuantity, they do 
it. 

Now where does man fit in? Man 
is a member of the Primate order, 
which runs from the lemurs to him- 
self and includes the apes and mon- 
keys. All primates, with only one 
exception, are herbivorous. The one 

98 



exception, of course, is man him- 
self. Homo sapiens is omnivorous 
in fact — that is, he will eat any- 
thing he can digest and a few 
things he can’t — and carnivorous by 
choice. 

Man has adapted himself to this 
kind of diet as far as morphology 
is concerned, but what about his 
biochemistry? His bile is still the 
bile he has inherited from his her- 
bivorous primate ancestors ami is 
rich in G-salts and poor in T-salts, 
so though his diet is full of ihulcs- 
lerol, he lacks the equipment to 
handle it properly and keep it in 
solution, or at least well-mixed with 
water. - 

Y ou ask ; So ? 

So is there any conneafion be- 
tween this and the fact that Homo 
sapiens is the one species that is 
plagued with gallstones, which are 
conglomerations of cholesterol — 
usually — that has precipitated out of 
the bile little by little? Is there any 
connection between this and the fact 
that Homo sapiens is the one species 
that is plagued with atherosclerosis 
— our number one killer these days 
' — which consists largely of the 
deposition of cholesterol little by 
little in the walls of the arteries? 

Is there? I honestly don’t know. 
The argument as I've presented it 
sounds good, but biochemistry these 
days is, in many ways, but the 
handmaiden of medicine. Few bio- 
chemists devote themselves to the 
workings of various species except 
where some definite problem of 
immediate interest to Homo sapiens 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



is concerned. I'herefore not enough 
is known about various animal biles 
and their manner of working to 
make the above argument airtight. 
So far, it’s just a speculation which 
I’ve come across at the end of a 
review article and which I pass on 
to the readers of Astounding Science 
Fiction, who are hardened to specu- 
lation. 

Can biochemical evolution affect 
the morphological evolution with 
which we are familiar? Maybe. We 
can try on some more speculation 
for size. 

All animals produce a compound 
called uric acid as a waste product, 
some producing more than others. 
Birds and reptiles, for instance, 
produce uric acid in a quantity as 
one of their main waste products. 
(I'll have more to say about that 
later in the article.) They have 
special ways of getting rid of it 
and we can forget them for now. 
Mammals produce only small ejuan- 
tities of uric acid, but its disposal 
raises a |sroblem. 

The logical way for mammals to 
get rid of uric acid is to dump it 
into the urine. The trouble is that 
uric acid is quite insoluble so it 
takes a lot of urine to get ritl of a 
little bit of uric acid. Most mammals 
don't even bother, but by-pass the 
problem completely. They have an 
enzyme called uricase, which breaks 
up uric acid to a substance named 
allantoin. Allantoin is considerably 
more soluble than uric acid and can 
be dumped into the urine without 

TItE SEA URCHIN AND WE 



trouble. That ends the problem. 

Or at least it ends it for other 
mammals; not for man. Man and 
the anthropoid apes differ from all 
other mammals in not having uri- 
case. (There is a variety of dog, 
the Dalmatian coach-hound, which 
seems to be low in uricase, but it has 
some.) Any uric acid which is 
formed in man or ape stays uric 
acid. It must get into the urine as 
best it can since it can be eliminated 
only in that way. If too much gets 
into the urine for the latter to hold, 
it will precipitate out and form one 
variety of kidney stone. If there’s 
too much even to get into the urine 
in the first place, it may precipitate 
out in other parts of the body, be- 
ginning usually with the joint of the 
big toe, and the condition known 
as gout results. 

Since man and apes share this 
problem, the loss of uricase must 
be dated far back in time at a point 
where the human stock had not yet 
diverged from that of the anthropoid 
apes, unless you’re willing to be- 
lieve that man and each species of 
ape have separately and coinciden- 
tally lost their uricase, which I’m 
not. 

The question is, why should the 
enzyme, uricase, have been lost? To 
be sure, in one way, there doesn’t 
have to be a reason. Mutations take 
place in haphazard fashion, and are 
usually for the worse. But then, 
mutations for the worse generally 
don’t survive in the long run; only 
mutations for the better — in the 
sense of better fitting the environ- 

99 



ment. If some pre-anthropoid had 
lost the enzyme, uricase, would not 
he and his descendants have been 
at some disadvantage because of their 
extra propensity for joint troubles? 
Would not his normal cousins have 
won out, survived, and passed on 
uricase to tire anthropoids and men 
of today? 

The answer is, yes. That is, yes, 
unless the absence of uricase had 
survival value that made up for the 
disadvantages. And here comes a 
piece of speculation I bumped 
into recently in a chemical-news 
weekly. 

The absence of uricase means that 
the concentration of uric acid in the 
blood and tissues of apes and man 
is higher than in that of other 
species. Uric acid is a member of 
a group of compounds called purines, 
some members of which are stimu- 
lants of the nervous system. The 
purine stimulant you are probably 
best acquainted with is the caffeine 
in coffee. Now what if a higher 
concentration of uric acid in the 
blood of the prc-anthropoiil who 
lost uricase kept him at a higher 
level of mental activity than was the 
case with his uricase-containing 
cousins? Would not that have more 
than made up for the off-chance 
possibility of gout? Could not the 
uric acid, in fact, have been one of 
the chemical factors involved in 
stimulating gradual development of 
the brain into the large specialized 
structures now present in apes and, 
particularly, in man ? If so, what 
price gout? 

100 



Consider the manner in which life 
forms moved out of the sea — in 
which life originated — into fresh 
water and onto land. That involved 
not only the familiar morphological 
evolution, but biochemical evolution 
as well. In the sea, cells developed 
in a liquid containing certain ions 
— chiefly sodium, potassium, calcium, 
magnesium, chloride and sulfate 
ions — in certain concentrations. 

Life made the adjustment to those 
concentrations once and apparently 
that was it for all time. 

When animals grew more com- 
plicated and became a group of cells 
enclosed in some form of shell, skin, 
protective membrane or what have 
you, the individual cells remained 
immersed in an inner liquid resem- 
bling sea water in ionic composition. 
The outer portions of the body, as 
well as many other things, changed 
to suit altered conditions when ani- 
mals moved out onto the land, but 
the internal liquid, the liquid with 
which the cells were in actual con- 
tact, remained about the same. Our 
own blood, after you subtract the 
various blood cells and dissolved 
proteins ami other organic material, 
is remarkably like a quantity of trap- 
ped sea water, and so is the intersti- 
tial fluid that exists in the spaces 
between our cells. 

In other words, we’ve never left 
the sea; we’ve taken it with us. 

(To be sure, the resemblance be- 
tween the ionic composition of blood 
and sea water is not exact. Some 
people suggest that our blood re- 
sembles the primeval sea; the sea 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



as it was when organisms first en- 
closed themselves; and that since 
then, the ocean has changed its 
composition somewhat, this change 
not being reflected in our blood.) 

This way seem to you as though 
biochemical evolution is something 
that docs not happen, but remember 
the Red Queen’s advice tJiat in her 
country it takes all the running one 
can do to stay in one place. 

Primitive sea creatures have no 
trouble maintaining the ionic com- 
position of their internal fluids be- 
cause it is mostly in even balance 
with sea water, and they have learn- 
ed, with the millions of years, to 
tolerate slight changes that may de- 
velop in sea water and hence in 
their own fluids. But when a sea 
creature invades the fresh water — ■ 
which, biochemically, is as difficult 
a feat as the invasion of land — a 
completely new situation develops. 

Presh water is only a thousandth 
as rich in ions as is sea water. When 
a sea creature tries to live in fresh 
water, it must somehow counteract 
the natural tendency of the ions 
within itself to leak out — or, for 
that matter, for water to leak in — 
and equalize the ionic concentration 
inside and outside the animal. 

To do that, fresh-water animals 
liave developed a number of intricate 
biochemical mechanisms to keep the 
ion composition of their internal 
liquid steady at the values to which 
they are accustomed. They have 
evolved, biochemically, like mad just 
to stay in the same place. 

In one way or another, the mech- 

THE SEA URCHIN AND WE 



anisms usually involve kidney action. 
Water is constantly entering the 
fresh-water creature, and ions enter, 
too, by way of the food it eats. The 
kidneys are so designed that they 
pass water out again but hold back 
the ions. The creature is thus an 
ion-trapping sieve. 

It is considered that any creature 
that can keep a surplus of ions in- 
side its body against a deficiency on 
the outside must have had some 
ancestor that adapted itself to fresh 
water. All vertebrates apparently 
come into this classification and so it 
is deduced biochemically that the 
original vertebrate from which all 
others — including you and I — are 
descended developed in fresh water. 

To be sure, a number of fresh- 
water vertebrates migrated back to 
the sea to become the ancestors of the 
marine -fish and marine sharks — the 
two are not the same, the fish being 
bony and more advanced, the sharks 
cartilaginous and more, primitive — ■ 
of today. By the time the fish and 
sharks returned to the sea, the sea 
water was a bit richer in ions than 
their internal liquid was. They had 
the reverse problem now; to keep 
surplus ions from entering or — ■ 
which amounts to the same thing — 
water from leaving. The fish solved 
the problem by cutting down om 
water loss through kidneys and by 
evolving special biochemical mecha- 
nisms to force ions out. (The sharks 
had another solution, which I’ll 
mention later.) 

You can find details, by the way, 
of this and other similar matters in 

101 



an excellent little book by Ernest 
Baldwin called "Comparative Bio- 
chemistry,” published by the Cam- 
bridge University Press in 1948. It 
may be my ignorance but I’m not 
aware of any comparable book in 
the field since then, alas. 

The conquest of the dry land 
involved a whole new series of 
biochemical modifications. One of 
these concerned the matter of waste- 
disposal.' 

The chief elements found in the 
organic materials of living creatures 
are carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and 
nitrogen — which chemists symbolize 
as C, H, O, and N respectively. 
When foodstuffs — which include 
complicated molecules built up out 
of anywhere from dozens to mil- 
lions of atoms of these elements, 
plus a few others — are broken tlown 
for energy, what is left -behind arc 
simple molecules which are waste- 
products to be gotten rid of. The 
carbon, hydrogen and oxygen end 
up as carbon dioxide (CO„) and 
water (H^O). In the case of most 
water-dwelling animals, the nitro- 
gen ends up as ammonia (Nil.,). 

Now for any creature living in 
fresh water, there is no problem. 
Carbon dioxide and ammonia arc 
soluble in water, and water is just 
water. Dump all three substances 
into the river. The waste water w'ill 
just mix with the river-water, the 
carbon dioxide will come in handy 
to the water plants, the ammonia 
will eventually be utilized by plants 
and bacteria. The plants and bac- 

102 



teria will build carbon dioxide, 
water, and ammonia back into the 
complicated molecules that the 
animals will again swallow, digest, 
and use for energy and to build 
their own tissues. Round and round 
things go. 

In fact, the only suspicion of risk 
involves ammonia which is highly 
poisonous. One part in twenty thou- 
sand of blood is enough to kill. 
Fortunately for the fresh-water fish, 
they’re passing so much water 
through their kidneys in their effort 
to keep up their ion content that the 
ammonia is flushed out as fast as 
it is formed and never has the 
chance to build up even the small 
concentration needed for poisoning. 

What about sea fish which pass 
less water through their kidneys? 
They still manage to flush out the 
ammonia adequately, though in their 
case it’s much more of a near 
squeak. 

But then we reach the amphibia — 
toads, frogs et cetera — the first c'er- 
tebrates to invade the land. As water- 
dwelling tadpoles, they excrete am- 
monia, but as adult, land-living 
creatures, ammonia is no longer pos- 
sible. Water is in such .short supply 
for any creature that doesn’t live 
actually imiuersed in it, that it can’t 
possibly be spent sufficiently reck- 
lessly to keep the ammonia concen- 
tration low enough. 

Before any creature could invade 
the land, then, it had to develop a 
type of nitrogen waste tliat was 
considerably less poisonous than 
ammonia. The adult amphibian ac- 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



complished this. It broke its nitro- 
ges down to urea (NH 2 -CO-NH 2 ). 
As you see, the urea molecule is 
made up of a fusion of the parts 
of two ammonia molecules and one 
carbon dioxide molecule. Urea is 
soluble in water and is much less 
poisonous than ammonia. It can be 
allowctl to build up to a much 
higher concentration than ammonia 
so that a given amount of nitrogen 
waste can be eliminated in a much 
smaller c[iiantity of urine, and pre- 
cious water is conserved. 

Here we have one case where a 
biochemical invention was made in- 
dependently more tlian once. The 
sharks- -who preceded the amphibia 
and were not ancestral to them — • 
after migrating from their fresh- 
water origin back to the sea were 
faced with keeping ions from the 
ocean surplus from invading their 
body. Instead of developing ion- 
excreting mechanisms as the marine 
fish did, they worked out the trick 
of breaking down nitrogen com- 
pounds to urea instead of ammonia. 
Then they allowed urea to concen- 
trate in the blood as they could never 
have done with ammonia. 

In fact, they allowed urea to 
accumulate to a concentration of 
2 per cent, which is enough to kill 
other creatures. (Even though urea 
is less poisonous than ammonia, it 
isn't entirely harmless. Nothing is.) 
Through the ages, shark tissue accli- 
mated itself to urea. The urea in 
the blood acted as the ions did, in 
a way, and made the total ion con- 
tent — with urea included — of shark 



blood higher than that of the ocean. 
The problem was, therefore, once 
again to keep the ions from leaking 
out and the Sharks could use their 
old fresh-water adaptations for the 
purpose instead of having to invent 
new mechanisms, as the sea fish did. 

So you see, although sharks and 
amphibia developed the same urea 
dodge independently, they did so 
for different reasons. 

Incidentally, some sharks migrated 
back to fresh water after having 
developed the urea-waste mechanism. 
Once in fresh water, the presence 
of urea in the blood was not only 
unnecessary, it was downright em- 
barrassing. It made the ion content 
of the blood artifically high so that 
it was harder than ever to keep it 
steady against the ion-free fresh 
water. The fresh-water sharks did 
the best they could by cutting down 
the urea concentration in blood 
from 2 per cent to 0.6 per cent, but 
there they reached their limit. Shark 
tissue had grown so accustomed to 
urea, it had become positively de- 
pendent lipon it. Shark heart, for 
instance, won’t beat in blood con- 
taining no urea. (Our hearts would 
do fine.) So you see, biochemistry 
can be a tricky thing. 

Even urea requires a certain 
amount of water to be eliminated. 
It’s all right for frogs and toads. 
One way or another they get 
enough water, even those species 
that seem to live away from water, 
and their eggs are always supplied 
with plenty of water. 



THE SEA URCHIN AND WE 



103 



Of the vertebrates descended from 
amphibia, , the mammals, too, produce 
urea. They get ample water for the 
purpose, and their young develop 
viviparously, that is, within tlie 
mother's body, where it ig always in 
contact with the mother’s water 
supply. 

The birds and reptiles are another 
case completely. They lay eggs and 
wi.thin those eggs, the young must 
develop... The chick egg, for in- 
stance, ,c.an contain only a certain 
amount of water and for the three 
weeks between fertilization and 
hatching,, the young chick must make 
that do because it will not get one 
drop m-c>re. 

Water-economy becomes more 
important than ever. There isn’t 
even enough water to take care of 
urea, so urea becomes inadequate 
as a waste pcdouct. A new invention 
is necessary. That new invention is 
uric acid — which I mentioned earlier 
in the article. Uric acid contains the 
fragments of four ammonia mole- 
cules and three carbon dioxide mole- 
cules, and its advantage over urea 
is this: iiric acid is quite insoluble 
in water. (Remember, that is . its 
d'Siidvantage in man.) The young 
bird or .reptile developing in the egg 
just piles up the uric acid wastes in 
a little dmnp heap. Little or no 
water is required. 

As is well known, morphological 
evolution can be traced in embryos. 
At various times during develop- 
ment, a human embryo passes 
through a unicellular ’ stage, an in- 
vertebrate stage, and a cartilaginous 

104 



stage. It shows at various times gills, 
a tail and a pelt of body hair. In 
the same way, biochemical evolution 
can be traced. 

The developing chick excretes 
mostly ammonia for the first four 
days, when the total excretion is so 
small and the egg so large in com- 
parison to the tiny embryo that dan- 
gerous concentrations are not 
reached. Then for the next nine 
days, nitrogen wastes are mostly in 
the form of urea, there still being 
a reasonable amount of water to keep 
the urea concentration low enough. 
Finally, during the last eleven days 
when things are getting tight, the 
wastes arc mostly in the form of 
uric acid. 

Turtles seem to be betwixt and 
between. Their egg-laying is done 
in closer contact with seas or rivers 
and they apparently produce both 
urea and uric acid. 

Again a duplication of inven- 
tions. Certain invertebrates have also 
invaded the land — some even earlier 
than even the vertebrates did. The 
insects and land-snails, for instance, 
also invented the uric acid dodge, 
quite independently. 

In connection with all this, I seem 
to recall that spiders have beat out 
all other creatures by excreting ni- 
trogen in the form of guanine. 
Guanine is a compound resembling 
uric acid, but it contains parts of 
five ammonia molecules, instead of 
only four as uric acid does, and it is 
even less soluble than uric acid. The 
only trouble is, I can’t for the life 
of me find the reference and I never 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



know how far I can trust my mem- 
ory. 

I have already mentioned the fact 
that from biochemical considerations 
we can say that vertebrates first de- 
veloped in fresh water. It is also 
possible to speculate from other 
biochemical considerations about 
the ancestry of the vertebrates. 

It seems, you see, that there is 
an important compound in our mus- 
cles which is intimately connected 
with tlie mechanism whereby mus- 
cles contract and relax. It is called 
creatine phosphate and we will ab- 
breviate it as CP. Now here’s an 
intercstini; thing: CP is found in 
vertebrate muscle of all sorts, but 
it is not fouml in invertebrate mus- 
cle. 

Invertebrate muscle contains in- 
stead a similar compound with simi- 
lar functions, called arginine phos- 
phate, which we can abbreviate as 
AP. 

Now the problem is: at what 
point in evolution was CP invented 
as a substitute for AP.^ Since all 
vertebrates have CP, it was prob- 
ably invented at some point before 
the vertebrates developed — unless 
the different groups of vertebrates 
each invented it independently, 
which seems too unlikely to con- 
sider. 

Well, the vertebrates — which are 
characterized by bony skeletons — are 
part of a large group of animals 
called the chordata. The less ad- 
vanced animals in this group haven’t 
reached the point where they have 

THE SEA URCHIN AND WE 



bones, but instead have inner stiffen- 
ings of some softer material. The 
indispensable minimum that makes 
an animal a member of the chordata 
is the presence of a cartilaginous 
rod called a notochord inside the 
body at some time in life. 

There are three groups of these 
primitive chordates. The most ad- 
vanced type is amphioxus, which is 
fish-shaped— with fins missing and 
a fringed hole where a mouth and 
jaws should be. It has a notochord 
running the length of its body all 
the days of its life. Its muscles have 
CP, just as your muscles do. 

The most primitive of these primi- 
tives are the tunicates, which show a 
small scrap of notochord in their 
larval form. 

As adults, they lose it alto- 
gether and are so invertebrate in 
appearance that they were originally 
classified as mollusks. The tunicates 
have AP in their muscles, just as 
invertebrates do. 

The intermediate group of the 
three includes the balanoglossus, a 
wormlike creature. It doesn’t have 
a fully developed notochord, but it 
does have a scrap of it that hangs 
on into adult life. 

Well, to end the suspense, balan- 
oglossus muscle has both AP and 
CP. 

Can AP be traced farther back? 

The answer is yes. The larvae of 
balanoglossus resemble the larvae of 
certain echinoderms — a group of 
animals that includes the familiar 
starfish — so much that before the 
adult form of the balanoglossus was 

105 



discovered, the larvae were classified 
as echinoderms. 

What about the echinoderms, 
then? These are divided into a num- 
ber of groups, of which the major- 
ity, including the starfish, contain 
AP in their muscles just as other 
invertebrates do. However, there is 
one group, the brittle stars — which 
resemble star fish except that the 
"arms” are longer and more flexible, 
and emerge from a globular little 
"body” — with muscles that contain 
CP, as do those of vertebrates. The 
final group, the sea urchins — with 
spiny bodies shaped like disks that 
are round above and flat below — 
contain both CP and AP. 

CP can’t be traced any farther 
back, so far. It would seem then 
that at some time in the past, some 
creature — ^of which the sea urchin 
is the most direct descendant — in- 
vented CP. From this creature was 
evolved ancestral balanoglossus, and 
from balanoglossus was evolved the 
vertebrates — including man. 

So if you should ever see a sea 
urchin, be respectful. Of all the 
invertebrates from amebae to insects 



and from ijvorms to octopi, it is pos- 
sibly your closest relative. 

All I have said so far ranges from 
sheer guesswork to reasonable — but 
shaky — deduction. The main trou- 
ble connected with all phases of 
comparative biochemistry is lack of 
data, and that simply because so 
few people work on sea urchins and 
turtles and balanoglossus and spiders 
in a biochemical way. 

This is a pity not only because 
comparative biochemistry is a fasci- 
nating field and one that can help 
us understand man; there’s another 
reason, as far as I’m concerned, . and 
— surprise! — a science-fictional one. 
I’ve already said that the biochemis- 
try of life forms is less changeable 
than their morphology, so that a 
brand-new life form is more likely 
to be understamlablc biochemically 
than morphologically. 

Do you want to bet, then, that 
when and if extraterrestrial life is 
discovered — or discovers us — a well- 
developed science of comparative 
biochemistry won’t come in very 
handy, indeed? 



THE END 




106 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 




HOT POTATO 

There is such a thing as kick- 
ing a man upstairs, and such 
a thing, too, as giving a man 
an untenable honor. And when 
it conies to a refugee govern- 
ment that’s been refugee-ing 
for a generation . . . what do 
you do? 

BY ALGIS BBDRYS 

Illustrated by Freas 



There was a wall telephone in 
the main kitchen of the Royal 
Cheiron Hotel. When it rang, one 
of the potboys answered it and 
Thomas Harmon, Supervising 
Chef, paid it no attention. He was 
tasting a sauce one of the under- 
chefs had prepared. He rolled his 
tongue to let the more important 
taste buds at the back of his mouth 
give him their judgment. Twenty 
years liere, from potboy to his pres- 
ent position, and he hadn’t been a 
young man when he began. But his 
taste had only improved as his other 
senses slackened and lost their dis- 
tracting vigor. He was a good chef 
— not quite as good as his reputa- 
tion, perhaps — but good. 

The underchef was looking at 
him anxiously, out of the gold- 



HOT POTATO 



107 



flecked brown eyes that had already, 
in these few centuries since the ex- 
colony’s foundation, emerged to 
mark the difference between Earth- 
men and Centaurians. 

Harmon nodded slowly. "Good,” 
he said. "But I’d add a little more 
jonesgrass.’’ Jonesgrass wasn’t quite 
thyme. But thyme didn’t grow on 
Cheiron, which was Alpha Cen- 
taurus IV. Jonesgrass would have 
to do. "Just a touch, StefB.” 

Steffi nodded respectfully, his 
face relieved. "Just a touch. Right, 
Mr. Harmon. Thank you." Harmon 
grunted pleasantly and moved on 
to the next underchef. 

"Excuse me, please, Mr. Har- 
mon.” It was the potboy who’d an- 
swered the telcplionc. Harmon 
turned his head sharply: 

“Yes, boy?” His tone was a little 
more snappish than he would have 
liked. But interruptions threw him 
off his' stride. And now he recalled 
the ring of the telephone, and that 
annoyed him even more. He was 
rather sure of who it would be, 
calling in the middle of his work- 
day like this. 

"I’m sorry, Mr. Harmon.” The 
boy’s expression was just properly 
intimidated. Harmon smiled softly 
to himself. It wouldn’t do the boy 
any harm. Any good chef was a 
bugbear to his help, for at least 
one good reason. It gave appren- 
tices an appreciation of the master’s 
status, and firm self-confidence 
when they finally achieved his sta- 
tion for themselves. Also, it weeded 
out the flustery hearts before they 

108 



had an opportunity to do something 
seriously asinine in the middle of a 
busy hour. 

"Well?” 

"There’s . . . there’s a call for 
you, sir. They say it’s important.” 
"No doubt,” he growled. But 
since he suspected who it was, he 
went to the phone. And he’d been 
right. It was Hames, President 
Wireman’s Chief of Protocol. 

"Mr. Prime Minister?” Hames 
asked punctiliously. 

"Yes. What is it, Hames?” 
"President Wireman has asked 
me to inform all cabinet members 
that he’s calling an emergency meet- 
ing for seven o’clock. I realize that 
doesn’t give anyone much time, sir, 
but the president asked me to stress 
that it is important, and to ask every- 
one to |dcase be prompt.” 

"Wliat is it this time, Hames? 
Another resolution to be rcsul into 
the record of the Centaurian Con- 
gress?” 

"I’m sure I don’t know, sir. May 
I inform the president you’ll be at 
his apartment on time?” 

Harmon frowned at the telephone. 
"Yes . . . yes. I’ll be there. I’m 
sworn to serve the interests of the 
Government in Exile, after all.” He 
hung up. And the Royal Cheiron 
wouldn’t be discharging its famous 
Mr. Thomas for taking a few hours 
off, so that was all right. In the end, 
all Hames’ call meant was that any- 
one ordering dinner at the Cheiron 
tonight wouldn’t quite get the best 
in the exotic terrestrial cuisine for 
which its kitchen was famous. 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



So, no one on Cheiron being 
qualified to judge — except for the 
handful of refugee Earthmen — 
there was no apparent loss to any- 
one. Harmon found himself resent- 
ing it just the same. He called over 
his head assistant, informed him 
bluntly that the dinner hour was in 
his hands, and went to his suite to 
change. 

The suite, as befitted his position 
on the hotel staff, was well-situated, 
and the bedroom was comfortable 
to the final degree. There was an 
adjoining sitting room, furnished 
with a stiff luxury that both comple- 
mented the grace of his bedroom 
and made it difficult to use. Har- 
mon generally stayed out of it, pre- 
ferring to keep the adjoining room 
as another badge of rank, rather 
than as anything useful. He was ten 
years a widower, a man of habits 
as confined as they were educated, 
and he had no need for more space 
than his bedroom gave him — which 
was a good deal in itself. He knew 
the suite was liis for as long as he 
cared to stay; even after his faculties 
stiffened to a point where his most 
useful contribution would be his 
name in conservative type at the 
foot of the dining room menu. 

He took down the suit the hotel 
valet had placed in his closet this 
morning, and laid it out on the bed. 
Dressing slowly, reacting pleasur- 
ably to the touch of soft, expensive, 
perfectly tailored fabric, he reflected 
on the usefulness of what, on Earth, 
had been a slightly eccentric hobby. 



He studied his reflection in the 
closet mirrors. Spare, with a little 
pot belly and a distinguished sweep 
of white hair, he could have passed 
easily for the man entitled to own 
the Royal Cheiron, rather than a 
member of its staff. 

He picked up his room telephone 
and asked to have his car brought 
around to the side entrance. While 
he waited, he reminded himself 
there was a wedding banquet sched- 
uled for next week. He spent the 
time roughly blocking out a menu 
for the affair, engrossed in the deli- 
cate business of balancing the flavor 
and texture of one dish against the 
next, reminding himself to consult 
with the wine steward before he 
made any final decisions. 

He drove slowly to the part of 
Cheiron City where President Wire- 
man lived. From time to, dime he 
looked up at the pale blue, ffey, with 
its yellower sun and faintly-seen 
smaller moon. He had nevbr, quite 
tired of the sight, for reasons that 
varied and had changed through the 
years of his life on this planet. At 
first there’d been the attraction of 
unfamiliarity, and he’d gazqd like a 
goggle-eyed rueben from .the back 
country farms looking up at his first 
tall building. Then, after the 
strangeness had worn off, he’d been 
on the night staff of the hotel — an 
awkward, fortyish man who wasn’t 
at all sure of himself, trying to do 
a young boy’s work, often feeling 
like a dolt as he stumbled over the 
frequently impenetrable accent that 



HOT POTATO 



109 



had crept over the language here. 
In those days, he’d been grateful for 
the sight of dawn. 

Now he drove through narrow- 
ing streets and thought of how far 
beyond Cheiron’s sky Earth and the 
Solar System lay — of the really un- 
imaginable distance that separated 
them. 

Four hundred years ago, this liad 
been Man’s earliest foothold on the 
stars — earliest, and, as it developed, 
only. The passage time had been 
worked down from ten years to five 
and a half, toward the end, but that 
was the best they could do. They 
were tinkering with an ultradrive 
just before the Invaders hit Earth. 
They still were, but it was too late 
for the Solar System. Centaurus was 
the focus of the human race today, 
and Earth, like the 'Western Roman 
Empire, was a jumble of ruins where 
the wolves prowled down out of 
the hills. 

It wouldn’t have mattered in the 
end, Harmon thought to himself. 
Once the colony had taken hold, 
every century was another step to- 
ward this day whether the Invaders 
had ever come or not. The Cen- 
taurian System Organization covered 
its own solar system, stretched out 
its own colonies, trafi'ickcd with 
races and systems far beyond Earth’s 
touch, and loomed so large in its 
own right that the Invaders hadn’t 
dared strike at the child over the 
parent’s corpse. 

His car hummed precisely to it- 
self as he turned the corner of the 
street where Wireman’s apartment 

110 



house stood, in a neighborhood that 
had slipped badly. As he parked, 
behind a car he recognized as Sec- 
retary of the Treasury Stanley’s 
limousine, he saw Secretary of De- 
fense Genovese draw up in a taxi, 
pay the driver, and wave the change 
away. Harmon crossed the street and 
met Genovese in the threadbare 
lobby. 

"How are you, John?” 

"Hello, Tom. How’re things?” 
They shook hands, a bit awkwardly 
out of rusty habit, and made small 
talk waiting for the elevator. 

"How is your w'ife, John?” 

"Fine, Tom — just fine.” 

"Business good?” 

"Couldn’t be better. I started 
working on a big account today. If 
I land it, the commission’ll just 
about put Johnnie through school 
all by itself.” 

"Well, that’s very good news. 1 
hope you get it. Wliere’re you .send- 
ing him? I understand the city uni- 
versity here is very good.” 

"That’s what I hear. But he's 
holding out for KenLi — that’s the 
engineering school in Areban. That’s 
an awfully long way away — he 
won’t get home except for Christ- 
mas and summers. But, if he really 
wants to go, that’s his business. Fle's 
big enough to know his own mind. 
Of course, there’s a girl going to 
another school in the same city — 
that may have something to do with 
it.” Genovese chuckled. 

They got into the creaky auto- 
matic elevator together, and rode up 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



to President Wireman’s floor. The 
hall was narrow, and badly lit. Har- 
mon always felt uncomfortable, 
waiting out here, trapped in a tight 
enclosure walled by featureless, 
brown-painted doors, all alike; so 
many secret panels hiding activities 
that were best kept tightly locked 
away; plans and schemes that would 
wilt if ever taken out in the air. 
Genovese pushed the doorbell. 

Hames answered the door, hold- 
ing it open wide and flattening 
himself against the wall of the nar- 
row corridor that led past the 
kitiheneltc. "Mr. Prime Minister. 
Mr. Secretary of Defense. The rest 
of the cabinet is already in the liv- 
ing room. President Wireman will 
be with you in a moment.” 

"Thank you, 1 lames,” Genovese 
said, stepping aside to let Harmon 
go first, and Harmon reflected on 
the change that always took place 
in them when they came here; the 
sudden weight of dignity that for- 
malized tlicir manners and modu- 
lated their voices, lie walked into 
the living room, with its carpet and 
furniture all wearing out, with the 
springs sagging in the couch and 
armchairs and the nap gone off the 
upholstery. 

We come in here, he thought 
dumsily after the manner of an in- 
frequently witty man, and we as- 
sume the gravity of another world. 

Puns, he thought, meanwhile 
bowing his head in acknowledgment 
as the other men in the crowded 
room left their seats to shake his 
hand and murmur greetings. Young 



Takawara was quite fond of them, 
I remember. If he could make them 
work out bilingually, so much the 
better. He was clearly the best of my 
assistants. I wonder what happened 
to him, on that last day when every- 
thing was so confused and we barely 
got off and fought our way through 
the Invaders’ ships. 

We were all so much younger, 
then. We were all so relieved that 
at least the president and his cab- 
inet were able to get away. We 
would have waited for the others if 
we could, but we thought we had 
at least saved the most important 
people. We were wrong. We left 
the only ones who mattered when 
we left all our Takawaras behind. 

Stanley had saved him a place on 
the coucli. Harmon took it thank- 
fully. "How are you, Mr. Secre- 
tary?” 

Stanley was about his own age, 
dressed in a slightly more conserva- 
tive suit than his own, but one of 
equal quality. They shared tailors, 
and Harmon’s account was in the 
bank Stanley managed. 

"Quite well, thank you, Mr. Min- 
ister.” Whenever they happened to 
meet ordinarily, Stanley called him 
Tom. "And you?” 

"Quite well.” He looked around, 
reflecting that questions of health 
were becoming less a matter of po- 
liteness and more literal every day. 
There was Yellin, paradoxically the 
Secretary of Health and Welfare, 
sitting stooped over his cane, his 
yellowed hands clasped over it and 
his rheumy eyes looking off at noth- 



HOT POTATO 



111 



ing, dressed in shabby clothes and 
cheap black shoes. Next to him was 
Duplessis, who might have been his 
brother — a little younger, a little 
more active, but only a little. He 
pictured them living in their fur- 
nished rooms, hermits in gloomy 
little caves, debating whether the 
day was warm enough for them to 
shuffle painfully downstairs and out 
to a park, day after day through 
all these years — perhaps regretting 
they’d ever come to Cheiron at all 
— old before the Invaders came, and 
lost here on this foreign world that 
held nothing for them. 

Hames came out of the corridor 
leading from the bedroom. "Gentle- 
men, the President of the United 
Terrestrial and Solar System Gov- 
ernment.’’ 

They all got to their feet — a room- 
ful of old men. 

Ralph 'Wireman, when he came 
in, looked no younger. 

He was a thin, slump-shouldered 
man. Harmon noted the worn look 
of his clothes — the subtle discolora- 
tion that years of perspiration had 
made in the dye, and the limp hang 
of cloth that had stretched to his 
movements and rubbed thin until no 
cleaning or pressing could make it 
hold its shape. 

He was a tired man. His black 
hair had receded, thinned, and 
turned white. Deep creases ran 
down his hollow cheeks and formed 
folds under his long jaw. His nose 
had sharpened, and the corners of 
his mouth had sunk into his cheeks. 

112 



His lips were faintly blue. The lean 
vigor that had been his characteristic 
had disappeared completely, turning 
into stringiness and set, stubborn, 
determination. The last time Har- 
mon had seen him, his eyes had still 
been feeding on a buried core of 
vitality. But tonight even that last 
spark was gone, as though the final 
watchfires of an encircled army had 
gone out at last. 

“Gentlemen.” His voice breathed 
up through his rattly throat. 

"Good evening, Mr. President,” 
Harmon said, wi.shing he hadn’t 
come. 

"Good evening, Tom.” 

The rest of the cabinet now said 
"Good evening” in rough chorus, 
and once that was over they could 
all sit down, with Hames standing 
watchfully beside the .president’s 
chair. 

I wonder what it is tonight? Har- 
mon thought. When they luul first 
come to Cheiron, these meetings had 
had some kind of life to them. There 
had still been purposefulness in 
those days: conferences with the lo- 
cal government of Cheiron, meet- 
ings with the olildals of the 
Centaurian System Organization, fi- 
nances to be arranged out of what 
Solar System funds had been avail- 
able in credits here before the 
collapse — it had been a busy time. 
But it had been a waning life, and 
after all the organizational proce- 
dures became cut and dried; after 
the frequent invitations to address 
tire Centaurian Congress had dwin- 
dled down to resolutions never read 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



but simply inserted into the Record, 
bit by bit stagnation had crept over 
them all. 

In those early days, there’d been 
hope. They’d even thought the Cen- 
taurians might go to war with the 
Invaders and make Earth free again. 
But the Centaurians and the Invaders 
had been a bit too closely matched — 
so clo.scly that no one could predict 
an outcome. And the Centaurians 
had been a long time away from 
Sol, ami the links had grown thin. 
Their language, four and a half 
light-years away from home by 
radio, had drifted toward the for- 
eign. Their interests, taken up by 
the enormous frontier of their own 
.system, h.ul turned away. Their 
memories of I'.arlh, four hundred 
years outdated, had legcndizcd to 
watery sentiments of a dim and dis- 
tant, archaic little world they looked 
back on, sometimes, but would not 
trade for the ravage and destruction 
that were the risk of losing to the 
Invaders. 

The Government in Exile was 
twenty years older, now. And men 
who’d.bcen mitldlc-aged were some- 
thing more than that today. Even 
Genovese, the youngest of them all; 
the bumptious, unsettling Boy Won- 
der, was one of them now. 

Harmon looked at Wireman’s 
eyes again, and wondered if it was 
finally all over tonight. 

But Wireman didn’t bring it out 
immediately. He clung to the old 
pattern of cabinet meetings, waiting 
to hear the usual preliminary reports 
that were still being given as they 



had been when Geneva stood and 
an army of clerks had been busy 
preparing digests and critiques of 
the week’s events. 

Harmon looked from Yellen to 
Duplessis to Asmandi to Dumbrov- 
ski — from Health to Postmaster 
General to Labor to Agriculture — 
and it was like trying to see phan- 
toms. 

"Edward?” Wireman breathed. 

Stanley got up. His papery cheeks 
twitched, and he shrugged. "There's 
nothing new. The Centaurian gov- 
ernment has unblocked the usual 
month’s dribble from our assets. I 
made the usual application to have 
the sum increased, and got the 
usual answer that the series of In- 
vader government claims against 
Terrestrial assets here is still beim? 
adjudicated. In short, they’re keep- 
ing us going but no more than that. 
They don’t want to give the Invad- 
ers any solid bone of contention.” 

Wireman nodded painfully. 
"Karl?” 

Hartmann, tlie Attorney General, 
stood up as Stanley sat down. "The 
Invader’s latest claim is being re- 
viewed by the Centaurian Supreme 
Court. I filed the usual brief quot- 
ing precedents against allowing it.” 

"I think it’s clear,” Wireman 
said. "The legal situation bears no 
resemblance to the de facto state of 
affairs. The Centaurian System Or- 
ganization is sympathetic to us, but 
it would be folly for them to go to 
war with the Invaders for our bene- 
fit. If, at some time, Centaurian 
and Invader interests clash sufficient- 



HOT POTATO 



113 



ly to cause a war, then we may ex- 
pect the Supreme Court to suddenly 
discover precedents conclusively in 
our favor, and for all the other won- 
derful things to happen for our 
benefit.” 

The same familiar treadmill, Har- 
mon thought. We stay alive, and 
after a fashion we continue to func- 
tion. Or perhaps we don’t, any 
more. 

. Hartmann was back in his chair, 
and now Wireman straightened a 
little. 

Here it comes, Harmon thought 
in expectation. 

"Gentlemen . . .” Wireman’s 
voice was very old, and very tired. 
"We’re approaching an unexpected 
crisis.” He looked over at Harmon, 
plainly asking for help, but Harmon 
still had no idea of what kind of 
help he needed. A prime minister 
was a man who could help under 
any ciraimstances but these. So long 
as Wireman was still alive, it was 
he who represented Earth, who was 
the symbol of something gone 
twenty years to ruin but still alive 
so long as he was. Only if Wireman 
were to go would Harmon again 
have a function, and weight. Wire- 
man’s weight. Harmon dropped his 
eyes helplessly, and after a minute, 
Wireman took up the fraying 
thread. 

"We know . . . we’ve always 
known . . . that if the Centaurian 
System Organization could find 
some way to help us without be- 
coming overtly involved, it would 

114 



do so. The paradox, of course, has 
always seemed insolvable. But it no 
longer is.” 

Harmon raised his head quickly. 

"As you know,” Wireman con- 
tinued, "the Liberation Fund has 
been maintained through all these 
years to keep open a line of com- 
munication with resistance groups on 
Earth. It has always seemed to me 
of paramount importance that wc 
do so, even though the cost of main- 
taining the necessary ultrafast scout 
ship has been a crippling burden on 
the fund. But without those few 
radio contacts which we have made 
from time to time, we would be 
completely cut off from our home 
and our people. Up to this time, we 
have never been able to do any 
more. Such groups as we were able 
to contact were small, ineffective, 
and hopelessly scattered. But recent- 
ly, one dominant, highly organized 
and well-led group has emerged. I 
refer, of course, to the one led by 
former Lieutenant Hammil, who has 
requested and been granted the rank 
of General. 

"Even so, I have never enter- 
tained any hope, for General Ham- 
mil’s group could not supply itself 
sufficiently well to be anything but 
a nucleus against the day when out- 
side help could be provided — hcljs 
which we were in no position to 
send, and which no other govern- 
ment could supply without risking 
war. 

"But, only yesterday, I discovered 
that for the first time since our ar- 
rival here, we are in a position to 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



make a positive move toward 
Earth’s liberation. Briefly: The Are- 
ban Automatic Weapons Company, 
which is a major supplier of the 
Centaurian System Army, has just 
received a contract to manufacture 
a new type of automatic rifle. As a 
consequence, its contract for the 
present tyj-jc has been canceled — and 
it has on liand a large stockpile of 
completed weapons of the earlier 
type, all new and in perfect condi- 
tion, for whi(h it has no conceivable 
market anywhere in the system. I 
was approa( lied by their agent, who 
told me that his company will sup- 
ply these weapons to us, together 
with suitable ammunition, on specu- 
lation against the tlay when a 
liberated Eailh will be able to |say 
them. In short, gentlemen, we can 
be free again.” 

Harmon had never seen him look 
quite so tired, or so hopeless, as he 
did after he finished. 

Yellin took an audible, quavery 
old man’s breath. The end of his 
cane scrajictl over the carpet. Eor a 
moment, they were all a little para- 
lyzed. In another moment, they’d all 
be talking at once. But Wireman 
said: "Tom, I’d like a private con- 
ference with you and John,” and 
the outburst choked. Hames bent 
over to help Wireman out of his 
chair, and Harmon saw Genovese 
getting to his feet, looking thought- 
ful. 'Tm afraid we’ll have to go in 
the kitchen,” Wireman said in his 
dignifiedly apologetic way. "Mrs. 
Wireman is resting in the bed- 
room.” 



The kitchenette pressed in on all 
sides of them with its cement floor, 
rust-stained sink, and peeling cup- 
board doors. Wireman sat on a 
newspaper spread on the narrow 
window ledge, and after he sat 
down he looked up at Genovese 
with a mixture of pain and wry 
amusement. "Now you can tell me 
I’m crazy, John.” 

Genovese leaned uncomfortably 
against the sink, his lower lip pulled 
back between his teeth. He shook 
his head. "It won't work, Mr. 
President. Never in a million years. 
Automatic rifles against a disci- 
plined army of occupation with 
every modern weapon in the book. 
No never.” 

Wireman looked at Harmon. "Is 
that your opinion, too, Tom.?” 

Harmon nodded, feeling the op- 
pression of the narrow room, look- 
ing at the ancient stove on which 
Mrs. Wireman had to cook. 

Somewhere, Wireman found a 
smile to bring to his exhausted face. 
It was like watching a man smile 
on the rack. "You’re right, of 
course. And yet — do you believe 
that fairy tale about the arms con- 
tracts? The sudden oversupply of 
weapons? The idiot company throw- 
ing its product down a rathole'?” 

Harmon grunted. His shoulders 
jerked erect, and he brought his 
knuckles down sharply on the edge 
of a shelf. "No! No, of course not! 
Sorry, Ralph — I’m getting out of 
practice, I guess. The Centaurian 
government’s making a move at 
last!” 



HOT POTATO 



115 




Wireman smiled faintly in agree- 
ment. "Tliat was my analysis. Offi- 
cially, they’re not involved. But 
they’re giving us the means to get 
things started, and I think if we 
do well at all, we’ll see the heavier 
weapons and motorized equipment 
flooding in exactly as though some- 
one, somewhere, had worked out a 
logistic schedule years in advance.” 
Genovese laughed suddenly — a 
yip of pure excitement that Har- 
mon’d thought the years had buried. 
But 'Wireman did not smile. His 
expression had sunk back into tired, 
hopeless desperation that only the 
underlying strength of his determin- 

116 



ation kept from lapsing into total 
lifelessness. 

Harmon couldn’t understand 
that. Looking at this kitchen, pic- 
turing this apartment, he thought 
about Wireman living out these past 
twenty years, waiting for this day — 
living them out here, trying to hang 
on and live on the pittance that was 
all he could allow himself from the 
trickle of available money — watch- 
ing men no older than himself find 
positions and live comfortably while 
he had to stay here, keepirig a sym- 
bol alive, trapped into being Presi- 
dent of the United Terrestrial and 
Solar System Government, watching 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 




his family eat cheap food and dress 
in patched clothing, and knowing 
that even prime ministers could find 
work and bring no tarnish to the 
bright memory of Earth’s freedom, 
but that the president could not. 
The rest of them could admit in 
public that Earth was no longer 
there, but someone had to preserve 
the fiction — someone had to embody 
the legal fable that the Government 
in Exile still represented its people 
— and Wireman was the man. So 
why, tcklay, was he more weighed- 
down than ever? 

“Tom 

“Yes, Ralph.” 

“Tom — and you, John — ” Aston- 
ishingly, Wireman was almost 
pleading. "You’ll back me with the 
rest of the cabinet, won’t you?” 

“Back you? Of course, Ralph.” 
Harmon frowned, perplexed. 

Wireman sighed and moved his 
hand over his face as though wiping 
away cobwebs. "Thank you,” he 
whispered. 

Hannon looked at Genovese, 
raising his eyebrows. Genovese 
shrugged, shaking his head. It made 
no sense to him, either. 

"All right, gentlemen, I tliink 
we’d better rejoin the others,” Wire- 
man said, pulling himself together 
and standing up slowly. He smiled 
feebly at Harmon. "A man my age 
ought to be in a hammock on a back 
lawn, somewhere, watching the 
grass grow.” 

Harmon followed him back into 
the living room, and Genovese hook- 



ed the kitchenette door open again 
behind them. They took their seats. 

The rest of the cabinet was com- 
pletely still, watching Wireman, 
occasionally glancing at Harmon 
and Genovese to guess what had 
gone on between them. Harmon 
kept his features still, wondering 
what Wireman was going to do. 

"Gentlemen — ” Wireman began. 
"I assume you’ve all had time to 
think over the implications of my 
announcement.” 

Harmon doubted it. He’d seen 
how rusty his own thinking was. He 
doubted if any of them could be 
much sharper, and in the case of 
several of them — Yellin, Duplessis, 
a few others — it seemed obvious 
that good judgment was something 
beyond their present capacity. But 
every man in the room nodded, hon- 
estly enough, for every man’s judg- 
ment confirmed to him that he really 
had thought everything out to its 
final conclusion. 

It goes, Harmon thought. Bit by 
bit, it wears away from disuse and 
no man can say where it went — but 
it’s gone, and too far to bring back. 
But we’re all there is available; we’ll 
have to do it somehow, tired as wc 
are. He wished desperately that 
Takawara had gotten away. He 
wished this had happened ten years 
ago. He wished there’d been time 
to gather them all in — all the bright, 
young people who would be at their 
peak today. But history never really 
bends to any one man’s wish. 

"We have our chance at last,” 
Wireman continued. "We mustn’t 



HOT POTATO 



117 



spoil it. All our energies, all our 
efforts, will have to be devoted. 
There’ll be administrative work to 
do, a definite program to be shaped 
and put into effect. We’ll be con- 
ferring with the Centaurian Govern- 
ment again, I imagine. That’ll be 
one more load. In addition, once 
the rising on Earth has fairly begun, 
we’ll all have to be ready to go back 
to Earth at a moment’s notice. Un- 
der the circumstances, considering 
the transportation difficulties, it 
might even be advisable to be in 
space, waiting.” 

Harmon heard Stanley, beside 
him, grunt in annoyed surprise. 
And gradually, as he looked at the 
rest of the cabinet members and saw 
Wireman’s words being digested, he 
saw most of the other men’s f.ices 
change. 

"Just a minute, Mr. President!” 
Stanley said testily, getting up. 

Harmon watched Wireman’s eyes 
as he looked at the Secretary of the 
Treasury, and now Harmon could 
understand what had troubled the 
president so much. There were 
many things in Wireman’s look. Sur- 
prise was not one of them. "Yes, 
Edward?” he said with a sigh. 

"As I understand it, you’re ask- 
ing us to devote full time to this 
project. Is that correct?” 

"You’re a member of my cabinet. 
You’re sworn to uphold the Gov- 
ernment, Edward.” It was said 
quietly, and it broke the bubble of 
Stanley’s temper. 

He waved a hand uncomfortably. 
118 



"Well . . . yes. Yes, I am. But, Just 
the same, I’ve got a position here — 
a rather important position. I’ve got 
responsibilities — Ralph, I’m the 
manager of the biggest bank in the 
city!” 

"I see. Do you mean that you 
can’t leave your outside job imme- 
diately, or do you mean you con- 
sider your responsibilities as a 
banker more important than your 
obligation to Earth?” 

Karl Hartmann was on his feet. 
"I think that wliat Secretary Stanley 
means is he’s let down roots here,” 
he put in. "It's . . . after all, Mr. 
President, it’s been twenty years . . . 
it’s a little difficult to suddenly bre.ik 
off all ties. In my case, for cxajnple, 
there’s my law office, my home . . . 
why, my wife has spent ten years 
furnishing and decorating our house. 
My son is married to a girl here, 
and they have chihlren of Iheir 
own — ” Hartmann’s glance wavered 
under Wireman’s. It was his turn, 
now, to become progressively an- 
grier as he stumbled harder. "After 
all . . . after all, when I came here 
I liad nothing. 1 had the clothes on 
my back and nothing else. 1 worked, 
Ralph — I worked very hard. I had 
to learn the law all over again. I 
had to clerk, and 1 had to pass Bar 
examinations — at my age. Back on 
Earth, I was a pretty good lawyer. 
That didn’t count here. I had to 
start all over again. I made it. I’m 
a pretty good lawyer here. And if I 
go back — what'm I going to do — - 
take my exams for a third time? 
The first thing there’s going to be 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



is a new election. D’yoii think I’ll 
be in the next president’s cabinet?” 

Harmon, thinking of his years 
scrubbing pots, working his way up, 
thinking of his position now, hard 
and fairly earned, heard most of the 
other men agreeing with Hartmann. 

We never realized, he thought — 
none of us-diow we’d really feel 
when this day came. 

"That’s a very interesting attitude, 
Mr. Hartmann,” Wireman said 
tightly, fighting back with no sign 
of the weakness he’d' .shown talking 
to Harmon and Genovese, not giving 
an inch. "I don’t think it’s com- 
pletely shared by other members of 
this cabinet, most of whom are in 
situations analogous to yours and 
Secretary Stanley’s.” He looked over 
toward Genovese, and only Harmon 
saw the clutch of his hand as his 
fingers closed tensely in the narrow 
space between his thigh and the edge 
of his chair. "For instance, I’d like 
to hear what John has to say.” 

Genovese was looking down at 
the floor, lie didn’t move or raise 
his head. Wireman tried and failed 
to reach him with his eyes. Geno- 
vese took a deep breath. 

"Fd Stanley asked if this was go- 
ing to be a full-time project, Mr. 
President. And you referred to his 
'outside job.’ I think we’ve got the 
crux of the thing right there.” His 
voice was low and halting. "Now, 
I promised you something a while 
back, Mr. President. I’m not forget- 
ting that. I made that promise as a 
member of your cabinet. But now 
I’ve got something to consider. 



What Karl said, expressed the spot 
I’m in. I’m a machine tool salesman 
in a territory that covers all of 
Cheiron City, Belfont, Newfidefia, 
and the little towns in between. I 
spend six months a year on the 
road, at least. I make good money, 
because I learned how to sell. I 
work hard — I’m not trying to build 
myself up by saying that: here’s 
the point — I spend all day, every 
day, being a salesman on Cheiron, 
for the Cheiron City Machine Tool 
Works. Except that once or twice a 
month, when I’m in town, I come 
up here for a few hours. Now — 
which is it that’s the outside job? 

"I want you to understand, it’s 
not that I’m unpatriotic or that I 
don’t remember what they’re going 
through, back on Earth. I've got my 
share of relatives back there, if the 
Invaders haven’t worked them to 
death by now. If I was back on 
Earth, I’d take a gun and do what 
I could, no matter what it cost me. 
But — ” 

"Shame!” Yellin broke in. "For 
shame! I have never heard — I had 
never thought to hear — treason 
spoken in this room!” He was trem- 
bling with rage, glaring from Geno- 
vese to Hartmann to Stanley. 

"You are all summer soldiers!” 
Duplessis shouted. "While this was 
a ... a lodge where you could play 
at government, you were content to 
do so. But now that there is work 
to be done, you’re leaving it to us — 
to the ones of us you’ve sneered at 
in your fancy foreign clothes, talk- 
ing that barbarian lingo and for- 



HOT POTATO 



119 



getting every civilized custom. Well, 
go — go back to your banks and 
briefs and traveling salesman’s 
routes! We don’t need you! Those 
of us who remembered our homc- 
Tand and waited for this day will 
do it for you — old as we are!” 

There were others: Asmandi, 

Dumbrovski in his slow-speaking 
way, Jones — the room was full of 
angry men on one side or the other. 
Genovese sat wordlessly in the mid- 
dle of it, letting Stanley, Hartmann, 
and the others who felt the same 
way, argue it out with Yellin and 
his side. Harmon felt sorry for him, 
startled by the dull gray color of 
his face. 

"Gentlemen!” Wireman was still 
holding himself in. His tight lips 
were almost invisible, but his voice 
was under good control as he turned 
to Harmon. "We haven’t yet heard 
from our prime minister.” 

Harmon could feel the pull of 
liis eyes across the room. They faced 
each other, both motionless in their 
seats, while Harmon remembered 
his early days on Cheiron, with Nola 
sick and lying alone in her room at 
night while he went out to work. 
And then she’d died, and somehow 
he’d still gone out to work, because 
it wasn’t in his nature to starve or 
sit. Now he had his position, and 
his suite, and his reputation. 

It was going to be terribly hard, 
getting this cabinet to pull together. 
They were working on a chancy plan 
at best — if it failed, that was the 
end of them as a functioning group, 

120 



and the end of hope for Earth, per- 
haps, and yet they were almost 
bound to fail, divided among them- 
selves, shot through with bitterness 
and shame, worn out to begin 
with — What was a man to do? 

"It’s my intention to stay and 
work,” he said after that long mo- 
ment, knowing it was probably a 
terrible mistake. "I gave my prom- 
ise.” The temptation to do the oppo- 
site had been very strong. Hartmann 
had been right — even if they suc- 
ceeded, there was nothing for them 
on Earth to compare with what they 
had here. 

Wireman bowed his head for a 
moment and slumped in his chair 
as the tension drained out of him. 
Then he raised his head. “Very 
well, gentlemen, you’ve heard what 
Tom had to say. Now I’d like a vote 
— how many of you are in favor of 
proceeding with the proposal to arm 
General Hammil?” He looked 
around expectantly. Harmon looked 
with him — and winced. 

Then he sighed quietly and won- 
dered what he’d gotten himself into. 
A clear majority of the cabinet was 
opposed. The division seemed to fall i 
precisely along the line separating 
those who’d been able to make 
careers on Cheiron and those who, 
for one reason or another, had not. 
He felt exposed, with only old Yel- 
lin and the other recluses to count 
on in crises. It was not his natural 
side of the fence at all. He’d have 
to fight the very men he understood 
and was friendly with, and count 
for allies on men with whom he'd 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



had nothing in common for twenty 
years. More and more, he was op- 
pressed by the knowledge that they 
were all weak to begin with — that 
there were not enough of them for 
the work, even united— and now, he 
knew beyond almost all possibility 
of doubt, they could only fail. 

He would try it — he’d promised 
Wireman, and he’d sworn an oath 
a long time ago. Every logical faculty 
he possessed told him it was hope- 
less, and he believed in his own 
logic. But, he would try it, however 
unwillingly. He’d do his best to 
patch this up, and go on. 

Then Wireman said: "'Very well. 
Tom, I’m asking you to form a new 
cabinet from among Mr. Yellin’s 
group. As for the rest of you, gen- 
tlemen, I'd like your resignations.” 
His face was ashen. "I have no 
choice.” 

Panic-stricken, Harmon suddenly 
realized there were some bargains 
he could not keep. The room had 
fallen completely silent. In that si- 
lence, Harmon said: "Ralph! You 
can’t do it!” 

"I have to, Tom. I have to have 
people I can count on.” 

"You can’t form a cabinet with 
six members. You can’t bring in 
anyone new — we’re practically all 
there are of us, right here in this 
room, and the rest didn’t even have 
the tie of being in the Government 
in Exile to hold them to Earth. 
Those of us here have all got to 
work on this together, somehow. Six 
people just can’t do all the neces- 
sary work — not six people as tired 



as we are. It can’t be done. It’s al- 
most . . . yes, it is suicide! And 
certain failure, too.” 

"We’ll have to do it. This is more 
important than our overworking 
ourselves. This is for Earth, and 
Earth’s freedom. Each of us has to 
be dependable. Each of us is going 
to have to carry this thing through.” 
Harmon shook his head in disbe- 
lief and murmured: "We stayed to- 
gether for twenty years while there 
was no hope. It took the chance of 
winning to break us up.” 

"Tom, have you changed your 
mind about staying with me.^” 
"Ralph- -be reasonable!” 

"I am reasonable. More reason- 
able than you, it seems to me.” 
Wireman’s neck seemed unable to 
hold his head erect, and he rubbed 
it wearily. "But, perhaps, you’ve 
grown away toward a different kind 
of reasoning from mine. All right 
—Mr. Ycllin, I'll ask you to please 
form "a new cabinet.” 

They were filing quietly out 
through the narrow corridor — Hart- 
mann, Stanley, Genovese, and the 
rest, with Harmon bringing up the 
rear. Harmon tried not to listen to 
what Wireman and the others were 
discussing in the living room. Sud- 
denly, affairs of state were no longer 
his concern. He moved in a shell 
of his own, vaguely noticing thj.t the 
others ahead of him weren’t talking 
to each other but were simply, as 
quietly as they could, leaving the 
apartment. When Hames touched his 
arm as he passed the kitchenette 

121 



HOT POTATO 



doorway, it took him some little 
time to react. Then he said; "Yes?” 
He didn’t recall what Hames had 
said. 

The Chief of Protocol repeated 
it. "I beg your pardon, sir. Your 
final salary check — will you want 
me to assign it to the Liberation 
Fund, as usual?” 

Harmon nodded quickly. "Yes . . . 
yes. And, here — ” He took out his 
billfold and handed Hames most of 
his cash, doubling the amount of 
the check. "Add that to it.” 

"Yes, sir. Sir — you know, he has 
to go on whether he wants to stop 
or not.” 

"I know. Good-by, Hames,” 
"Good-by, sir.” 

"Come in for dinner, sometime. 
Compliments of the house.” 

"Thank you, sir. But I’m afraid 
I couldn’t do that, now.” 

"No . . . no, I suppose not.” He 
stepped out into the crowded hall, 
and Hames shut the blank brown 
door behind him. When the elevator 
came, there wasn’t room for all of 
them. "Go ahead,” Harmon mur- 
mured. "I’ll take the next one 
down.” He waited, alone, wonder- 
ing whether Wireman would some- 
how make it work, after all. He 
didn’t wonder where he’d see Hart- 
mann or Genovese again, if ever. 
Possibly, there’d come a time when 
tliey could meet each other again. 
Or perhaps they’d all simply dis- 
appear into Centaurian society, never 
to re-emerge as anything but Cen- 
taurians, with no special distinction. 
The elevator came and he took it 

122 



downstairs, feeling as old and crip- 
pled as Yellin, feeling empty, feel- 
ing too tired with himself even to 
argue that there’d really been no 
choice. 

It was hopeless from the start, 
he thought. From the day we left 
Earth. People tend to believe the 
symbol is the thing itself, yes. Peo- 
ple can believe that so long as Ralph 
Wireman lives, so long as there is a 
group calling itself a cabinet, going 
through the ceremonies of function, 
that the government of Earth docs, 
in trutli, function. But, also, the 
people do not believe in these 
things, for the people are wiser than 
anyone knows. We drift, we lose 
the semblance of truth every day, 
and I’m sure that back on Earth 
they don’t believe in us any longer 
— no matter how much or how little 
lip-service they might still pay. And 
I think in the backs of our minds 
we knew it, too. The ablest and 
most vigorous of us started to be 
drawn away from the moment we 
touched this world, and only the 
old and ordinary stayed. It's a nat- 
ural process. There was no help for 
it. The best — the ones we needed 
most — were the ones we were bound 
to lose. 

The elevator stopped at the lobby 
floor, a few inches out of align- 
ment. Harmon seemed to need all 
his weight to push open the door, 
though actually it moved easily 
enough. 

And Wireman knew it. I don’t 
know how long ago he realized it, 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



but he knew it. For quite some 
time, possibly. He should be with 
us — he was the best of us all. He 
wouldn’t be a broken man today. 
He wouldn’t be threadbare. And I 
think he knows that, too. But he 
was our president, and he had to 
live out his lie. The people are 
wiser than they know, but they 
don’t know it. There was no escape 
for Wireman. 

Harmon let the elevator door 
close behind him and began walk- 
ing out of the lobby, thinking he 
would never be quite as much of a 
man again. 

But there was someone sitting in 
one of the lobby chairs. 

"Hello. Michael,’’ Harmon said. 

Michael Wireman, the president’s 
son, was a medium-tall, medium 
heavy man in his middle twenties, 
with his mother’s dull brown hair 
and eyes, and her features. He look- 
ed almost nothing like his father, 
resembling him neither in appear- 
ance nor personality. He kept pretty 
much out of his father’s way, and 
by tacit agreement that had never 
been put in words but had just 
worked itself out, he was never 
home during cabinet meetings. Har- 
mon, who never visited the Wire- 
mans socially, had consequently seen 
little of him since he was a small 
boy growing through his first five 
years aboard the refugee ship. The 
impression Harmon had of him was 
of a very ordinary boy; not the kind 
of son you’d expect of Wireman at 
all. Further than that, Harmon only 
knew that Wireman seemed to pretty 



much agree in that opinion. The 
only thing Michael seemed to in- 
herit from his father was the shape 
of his ears — the famous jughandle 
curve that had been a good person- 
ality touch in Wireman but was 
faintly laughable in his son. 

"Hello, Mr. Harmon.” The boy 
— it was impossible to think of him 
as a man after having just left his 
father — had a colorless voice. He 
sat in his straight-backed chair, 
shoulders slumped permanently for- 
ward, with his hands dangling limp 
between his knees, and looked up 
at Harmon with a sort of shy friend- 
liness. "Is the meeting over? I saw 
Mr. Stanley and Mr. Genovese leav- 
ing.” 

But, naturally, he hadn’t spoken 
to them. Or perhaps they had 
ignored him. Either way. 

"Yes, Alichael. It’s over. Mr. 
Yellin and some others arc still up 
there, however.” 

"Oh. Then I guess I shouldn’t 
go up yet.” He spoke in a perfect 
Centaurian accent, showing no trace 
whatsoever of his origin. Even his 
clothes, which, being inexpensive, 
were neither styled nor shaped ac- 
cording to the latest local fashion, 
were nevertheless worn in the in- 
definably different way a Centaurian 
would wear them. "Are we all going 
back to F.arth soon?” 

Harmon thought over his answer. 
Then he said: "I suppose you will 
be, along with your father and 
mother.” 

Michael looked at him in sur- 

123 



HOT POTATO 



prise. "Won’t you be coming with 
us.^’’ 

"I’m . . . afraid not, Michael.” 

"Don’t you want to go, Mr. Har- 
mon?” 

"I — ” Harmon shook his head. 

"Don’t you miss it? Don’t you 
want to see it again?” The note of 
surprise in Michael’s voice was 
turning into frank incredulity. 

"To be honest, Michael — ” 

"Do yon. like living here? Do you 
'like these people, and the crude way 
they live?” Swept up, the boy 
wasn’t even listening to Harmon 
any more. He seemed to be genu- 
inely enthusiastic, personally excited, 
for the first time since Harmon’d 
known him. It was obviously a topic 
in which he was much more inter- 
ested than almost any other. 

"Crude?” 

"You know what I mean. They’re 
rough, they’re impolite, they’re 
pushy . . . they’re nothing like the 
people on Earth.” 

Harmon took a deep breath. "Do 
you know a lot about Earthpeople, 
Michael?” 

The boy flushed. "Well ... of 
course, I never saw Earth.” His 
animation checked itself for a mo- 
ment. Then it rushed back redou- 
bled, as these tilings will. "But my 
mother’s told me all about them, 
and all about Earth. She’s shown 
me all the pictures she has of all 
the places on Earth — all the big 
buildings, and the museums, and the 
libraries. She’s told me all about 
Tilth Avenue, and the Arc de 

124 



Triomphe — ” he stumbled over the 
pronunciation — and Geneva, and 
Rome ... all those places.” 

"I see.” Of course — ^what else 
could have happened but that the 
boy and his mother would be drawn 
together to the point of spending 
hours perhaps every day throughout 
his life, reliving her life. "You 
know, the buildings weren’t any big- 
ger than some of the ones here. And 
there are some rather good mu- 
seums.” 

"I know. But nobody goes to 
museums here.” 

"Yes — well . . Harmon was 
powerless. What reality ever took 
the place of a lifelong dream? 

"I can’t wait to go back!” 

Harmon felt a peculiar bitter- 
sweet, sad amusement in himself. 
Here was this boy, neither a Cen- 
taurian nor an Eartliman, neither a 
man nor whatever he might think 
he was, and yet so positive. When 
he spoke about Earth, something 
glowed in his eyes that startled Har- 
mon in its resemblance to Wireman 
— and yet he spoke about it in a 
thick Centaurian accent. Harmon 
guessed the boy couldn’t very well 
be happy, no matter where in the 
human universe he might find Ifim- 
self. Neither fish nor fowl — though 
perhaps there was some strength 
there somewhere. 

"Michael — ” 

Harmon stopped, his eyes widen- 
ing and then contracting to slits as 
he chewed over a new thought. 

Then, after a time, he said, again, 
"Michael — ” 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



"Yes, Mr. Harmon?” 

"Mkhael, I wonder if you might 
come upstairs with me.” 

"Upstairs?” 

"I . . . I’ve had a thought. I 
think perhaps your father might like 
to hear it. And certainly, you should 
be there when he does.” Because, if 
Wireman accepted it, Michael’s life 
was ruined. 

But, with him, they just might 
do it. Wireman might just agree to 
it — particularly if Harmon offered to 
come back. 

Neither fish nor fowl nor good 
red meat, but a symbol — a new pair 
of shoulders to carry the wciglit, 
with Wireman’s name and 1 larmon 
behind him, with youth, witli all 
those deep-rooted embodiments of 
the perfect compromise . . . Yes. 
Lord knew what would happen to 
him after a free Earth was re-estab- 



lished. Not even Harmon could 
guess how many political sides 
would use him for a football, or 
what agonies would pile themselves 
afresh on that agony-prone soul. 
But it would happen, that much 
Harmon knew. 

And still it was their only hope. 
They were all of them tied together 
in this thing, all of them half-truths 
enlisted in the construction of a lie. 
They needed the lie. Earth’s people 
needed it. In a very real sense, the 
Centaurian government needed it. 
And, after all, it was a better lie 
than most. 

"We’d better hurry, Michael.” Lie 
put his arm around the boy’s shoul- 
ders. They w'ere thicker and solider 
than you’d think. Good, Harmon 
thought. They’ll carry weight. So 
much the less for me. 



THE END 

THE ANALYTICAL LABORATORY 

I do get occasional complaints about serials . . . but take a look at the 
An Lab scores ! One serial installment, and one long novelette — and what 
the point score doesn’t quite show is that ninety-four per cent of the first- 
place votes went to those two stories. The four short stories shared the 
remaining six per cent of first-place votes. Somehow, it looks as though 
readers do want the long ones! 

APRIL 1957 ISSUE 



PLACE 


STORY 


AUTHOR 


POINTS 


1. 


Tile Dawning Light (Pt. 2) 


Robert Randall 


2.07 , 


2. 


Call Me Joe 


Poul Anderson 


2.47 


3. 


Chain Reaction 


John A. Sentry 


3.62 


4. 


Torch 


Christopher Anvil 


3.70 


5. 


'Ehe Mile-Long Spaceship 


Kate Wilhelm 


4.17 

The Editor. 



HOT POTATO 



125 



THE BEST POLICY 

You know that one about, “Don’t give me any 
more facts; I’ve already made up my mind and 
you’re just trying to confuse me!” Maybe you 
thought it was a silly statement, huh.,.? 

BY DAVID GDRDDN 



Illustrated by Freas 



Thagobar Larnimisculus Verf, 
Borgax of I’cnigwisnok, had a long 
name and an important title, and he 
was proud of both. The title was 
roughly translatable as "High-Shcr- 
iff-Admiral of Fenigwisnok,” and 
Fenigwisnok was a rich and impor- 
tant planet in the Dal Empire. 'Fitlc 
and name looked very impressive 
together on documents, of which 
there were a great many to be 
signed. 

Thagobar himself was a prime 
example of his race, a race of power 
and pride. Like the terrestrial turtles, 
he had both an exo- and an endo- 
skeleton, although that was his 
closest resemblance to the chelonia. 
He was humanoid in general shape, 
looking something like a cross be- 
tween a medieval knight in full 
armor and a husky football player 

126 



clad for the gridiron. His overall 
color was similar to that of a well- 
boiled lobster, fading to a darker 
purple at the joints of his cxoskcle- 
ton. His clothing was sparse, con- 
sisting only of an abbreviated kilt 
embroidered witli fanciful designs 
and emblazoned with a swirl of glit- 
tering gems. The emblem of his rank 
was engraved in gold on his plastron 
and again on his carapace, so that 
he would be recognizable both com- 
ing and going. 

All in all, he made cpiite an im- 
pressive figure, in spite of liis five- 
feet-two of height. 

As commander of his own space- 
ship, the Verj, it was his duty to 
search out and explore planets which 
could be colonized by his race, the 
Dal. This he had done diligently 
for many years, following exactly his 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 




Cicncral Orders as a good command- 
er should. 

And it had paid off. He had found 
some nice planets in his time, and 
this one was the juiciest of the lot. 

Gazing at the magniscreen, he 
rubbed his palms together in satis- 
faction. His ship was swinging 
smoothly in an orbit high above a 
newly-discovered planet, and the 
magniscreen was focused on the 
landscape below. No Dal ship had 



ever been in this part of the galaxy 
before, and it was comforting to 
have discovered a colonizable planet 
so quickly. 

"A magnificent planet!” he said. 
"A wonderful planet! Look at that 
green! And the blue of those seas!” 
He turned to Lieutenant Pelquesh. 
“What do you think? Isn’t it fine?” 

“It certainly is, Your Splendor,” 
said Pelquesh. “You should receive 
another citation for this one.” 



THE BEST POLICY 



127 



Thagobar started to say some- 
thing, then suddenly cut it short. 
His hands flew out to the controls 
and slapped at switch plates; the 
ship’s engines squealed with power 
as they brought the ship to a dead 
stop in relation to the planet below. 
In the magniscreen, the landscape 
became stationary. 

He twisted the screen’s magnifica- 
"tion control up, and the scene be- 
neath the ship ballooned outward, 
spilling off the edges as the surface 
came closer. 

"There!’ he said. "Pelquesh, what 
is that.^’’ 

It was a purely rhetorical question. 
The wavering currents of two- 
hundred-odd miles of atmosphere 
caused the image to shimmer uncer- 
tainly, but there was no doubt that 
it was a city of some kind. Lieuten- 
ant Pelquesh said as much. 

"Plague take it!” Thagobar snarl- 
ed. "An occupied planet! Only 
intelligent beings build cities.” 

"That’s so,” agreed Pelquesh. 

Neither of them knew what to 
do. Only a few times in the long 
history of the Dal had other races 
been found — and under the rule of 
the Empire, they had all slowly be- 
come extinct. Besides, none of them 
had been very intelligent, anyway. 

"We’ll have to ask General Or- 
ders,” Thagobar said at last. He 
went over to another screen, turned 
it on, and began dialing code num- 
bers into it. 

Deep in the bowels of the huge 
ship, the General Orders robot came 
sluggishly to life. In its vast memory 

128 



lay ten thousand years, of accumu- 
lated and ordered facts, ten thou- 
sand years of the experiences of the 
Empire, ten thousand years of the 
final decisions on every subject ever 
considered by Thagobar’s race. It 
was more than an encyclopedia — it 
was a way of life. 

In a highly logical way, the robot 
sorted through its memory until it 
came to the information requested 
by Thagobar; then it relayed the 
data to the screen. 

"Hm-m-m,” said Tliagobar. "Yes. 
General Order 333,953,2l6-A-j, 
Chapter MMCMXLIX, Paragraph 
402. 'First discovery of an intelligent 
or scmi-inteiligent species shall be 
followed by the taking of a specimen 
selected at random. No contact shall 
be made until the specimen has been 
examined according to Psychology 
Directive 659-B, Section 888,077-q, 
at the direction of the Chief Psy- 
chologist. The data will be correlated 
by General Orders. If contact has 
already been made inadvertently, 
refer to GO 472,678-R-s, Ch. 
MMMCCX, Par. 353. Specimens 
shall be taken according to . . .” 

He fini.shcd reading off the Gen- 
eral Order and then turned to the 
lieutenant. "Pelquc.sh, you get a 
spaceboat ready to pick up a speci- 
men. I’ll notify psychologist Zan- 
doplith to be ready for it.” 

Ed Magruder took a deep breath 
of spring air and closed his eyes. It 
was beautiful; it was filled with 
spicy aromas and tangy scents that, 
though alien, were somehow home- 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



like — more homelike than Earth. 

He wa.s a tall, lanky man, all el- 
bows and knees, with nondescript 
brown hair and bright hazel eyes 
that tended to crinkle with sup- 
pressed laughter. 

He exhaled the breath and opened 
his eyes. The city was still awake, 
but darkness was coming fast. He 
liked his evening stroll, but it wasn’t 
safe to be out after dark on New 
Hawaii, even yet. There were little 
night-things that fluttered softly in 
the air, giving little warning of their 
poisonous bite, aiul there were still 
some of the larger predators in the 
neighborhood. I le st.irted walking 
back toward New 1 lilo, the little city 
that marked man's first foothold on 
the new planet. 

Magruder was a biologist. In the 
past ten years, he had prowled over 
half a dozen planets, collecting 
specimens, dissecting them with 
precision, and entering the results 
in his notelwoks. Slowly, bit by bit, 
he was putting tog.ether a pattern — 
a pattern of life itself. His predeces- 
sors streUhed in a long line, clear 
b.ick to Karl v.on Linne, but none of 
them had realized what was missing 
in their work. They had had only 
one type of life to deal with ter- 
restrial life. And all terrestrial life 
is, after all, homogenous. 

But, of all the planets he’d seen, 
he liked New Hawaii best. It was 
tl'ie only planet besides Earth where 
a man could walk around without 
a protective suit of some kind — at 
least, it was the only one discovered 
so far. 



He heard a faint swishing in the 
air over his head and glanced up 
quickly. The night-things shouldn't 
be out this early! 

And then he saw that it wasn’t a 
night-thing; it was a metallic-look- 
ing globe of some kind, and — 

There was a faint greenish glow 
that suddenly flashed from a spot on 
the side of the globe, and all went 
blank for Ed Magruder. 

Tliagobar Verf watched dispas- 
sionately as Lieutenant Pelquesh 
brought the unconscious specimen 
into the biological testing section. It 
was a queer-looking specimen; a 
soft-skinned, sluglike, parody of a 
being, with a pale, pinkish-tan com- 
plexion and a repulsive, fungoidal 
growth on its head and various other 
areas. 

The biologists took the specimen 
and started to work on it. They took 
nips of skin and samples of blood 
and various electrical readings from 
the muscles and nerves. 

Zandoplith, the Chief Psycholo- 
gist, stood by the commander, watch- 
ing tlic various operations. 

It was Standard Procedure for the 
biologists; they went about it as they 
would with any other specimen that 
had been picked up. But Zandoplith 
was going to have to do a job he 
had never done before. He was 
going to have to work with the 
mind of an intelligent being. 

He wasn’t worried, of course; it 
was all down in the Handbook, 
every bit of Proper Procedure. There 
was nothing at all to worry about. 



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129 



As with all other specimens, it 
was Zandoplith’s job to discover the 
Basic Reaction Pattern. Any given 
organism could react only in a cer- 
tain very large, but finite number 
of ways, and these ways could be 
reduced to a Basic Pattern. All that 
was necessary to destroy a race of 
creatures was to get their Basic Pat- 
tern and then give them a problem 
that couldn't be solved by using that 
pattern. It was all very simple, and 
it was all down in the Handbook. 

Thagobar turned his head 1 rom 
the operating table to look at Zan- 
doplith. "Do you think it really will 
be possible to teach it our lan- 
guage.?” 

"The rudiments. Your Splendor,” 
said the p.sychologist. "Ours is, after 
all, a very complex language. We'll 
give him all of it, of course, but it 
is doubtful whether he can assimi- 
late more than a small portion ol 
it. Our language is built upon logic, 
just as thought is built upon logic. 
Some of the lower animals arc capa- 
ble of the rudiments of logic, but 
most arc unable to grasp it.” 

'"Very well; we’ll do the best wc 
can. I, myself, will question it.” 

Zandoplith looked a little star- 
tled. "But, Your Splemlor! The 
questions are all detailed in the 
Handbook !” 

Thagobar "Verf scowled "I can 
read as well as you, Zandoplith. Since 
this is the first semi-intclligent life 
discovered in the past thousand years 
or so, I think the commander should 
be the one to do the question- 
ing.” 

130 



"As you say. Your Splendor,” the 
psychologist agreed. 

Ed Magruder was placed in the 
Language Tank w'hen the biologists 
got through with him. Projectors of 
light were fastened over his eyes so 
that they focused directly on his 
retinas; sound units were inserted 
into his ears; various electrodes were 
fastened here and there; a tiny net- 
work of wires was attacheil to his 
skull. Then a special serum wlrnh 
the biologists had protluced was in- 
jected into his bloodstream. It was 
all very elficient and very .smoothly 
done. Then the Tank was closed, 
and a switch was thrown. 

Magruder felt himself swim diz- 
zily up out of the blackness. He saw 
odd-looking, lobster-colored things 
moving around while noises whisper- 
ed and gurgled into his ears. 

Gradually, he began to orient him- 
self. He was being taught to asso- 
ciate sounds with actions and things. 

Ed Magruder sat in a little four- 
by-six room, naked as a jaybird, 
looking tlirough a transparent wail 
at a sextette of the aliens he had 
seen so much of lately. 

Of course, it wasn't these particu- 
lar bogeys he’d been watching, but 
they looked so familiar that it was 
hard to believe they were here in 
the fle.sh. He had no idea how long 
he’d been learning the language; 
with no exterior references, he was 
lost. 

Well, he thought. I’ve picked up a 
good many specimens, and here I 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



am, a specimen myself. He thought 
of the treatment he’d given his own 
specimens and shuddered a little. 

Oh, well. Here he was; might as 
well put on a good show — stiff 
upper lip, chin up, and all that sort. 

One of the creatures walked up to 
an array of buttons and pressed one. 
Immediately, Magruder could hear 
sounds from the room on the other 
side of the transparent wall. 

Thagobar Verf looked at the 
specimen and then at the question 
sheet in his hand. "Our psycholo- 
gists have taught you our language, 
have they not?’’ he asked coldly. 

The specimen bobbled his head 
up and down. "Yup. And that’s 
what I call real force-feeding, too.” 

"Very well; I have some ques- 
tions to ask; you will answer them 
truthfully.” 

"Why, sure,” Magruder said 
agreeably. "Fire away.” 

“We can tell if you are lying,” 
Thagobar continued. "It will do 
you no good to tell us untruths. 
Now; What is your name?” 

"Theophilus Q. Hassenpfeffer,” 
Magruder said blandly. 

Zandoplith looked at a quivering 
needle and then shook his head 
slowly as he looked up at Thagobar. 

"That is a lie,” said Thagobar. 

The specimen nodded. "It sure is. 
That’s quite a machine you’ve got 
there.” 

“It is good that you appreciate the 
superiority of our instruments,” 
Thagobar said grimly. "Now: Your 
name.” 



"Edwin Peter St. John Magruder.” 
Psychologist Zandoplith watched 
the needle and nodded. 

"Excellent,” said Thagobar. 
“Now, Edwin — ” 

" 'Ed’ is good enough,” said 
Magruder. 

Thagobar blinked. "Good enough 
for what?” 

"For calling me.” 

Thagobar turned to the psycholo- 
gist and mumbled something. Zan- 
doplith mumbled back. Thagobar 
spoke to the specimen. 

"Is your name 'Ed'?” 

"Strictly .speaking, no,” said Mag- 
ruder. 

"Then why should I call you 
that?” 

"Why not? Everyone else does,” 
Magruder informed him. 

Thagobar consulted further with 
Zandoplith and finally said: "Wc 
will come back to that point later. 
Now . . . uh . . . Ed, what do you 
call your home planet?” 

"Earth.” 

"Good. And what does your race 
call itself?” 

"Homo sapiens.” 

"And the significance of that, if 
any?” 

Magruder considered. "It’s just a 
name,” he said, after a moment. 
The needle waggled. 

"Another lie,” said Thagobar. 
Magruder grinned. "Just testing. 
That really is a whizzer of a ma- 
chine.” 

Thagobar’s throat and face dark- 
ened a little as his copper-bearing 
blue blood surged to the surface in 



THE BEST POLICY 



ISl 



suppressed anger. "You said that 
once,” he reminded blackly. 

"I know. Well, if you really want 
to know, homo sapiens means 'wise 
man.’ ” 

Actually, he hadn’t said "Wise 
man”; the language of the Dal 
didn’t quite have that exact concept, 
so Magruder had to do the best he 
could. Translated back into English, 
it would have come out something 
like "beings with vast powers of 
mind.” 

When Thagobar heard this, his 
eyes opened a little wider, and he 
turned his head to look at Zandop- 
lith. The psychologist spread his 
horny hands; the needle hadn’t 
moved. 

"You seem to have high opinions 
of yourselves,” said Thagobar, 
looking back at Magruder. 

"That’s possible,” agreed the 
Earthman. 

Thagobar shrugged, looked back 
at his list, and the questioning went 
on. Some of the questions didn’t 
make too much sense to Magruder; 
others were obviously psychological 
testing. 

But one thing was quite clear; the 
lie detector was indeed quite a whiz- 
zer. If Magruder told the exact 
truth, it didn’t indicate. But if he 
lied just the least tiny bit, the needle 
on the machine hit the ceiling — and, 
eventually, so did Thagobar. 

Magruder had gotten away with 
his first few lies — tirey were unim- 
portant, anyway — but finally, Thago- 
bar said: "You have lied enough, 
Ed.” 

132 



He pressed a button, and a nerve- 
shattering wave of pain swept over 
tlie Earthman. When it finally faded, 
Magruder found his belly muscles 
tied in knots, his fists and teeth 
clenched, and tears running down 
his cheeks. Then nausea overtook 
him, and he lost the contents of his 
stomach. 

Thagobar Verf turned distaste- 
fully away. "Put him back in his cell 
and clean up the interrogation cham- 
ber. Is he badly hurt?” 

Zandoplith had already checked 
liis instruments. "I tliink not. Your 
Splendor; it is probably only slight 
shock and nothing more. However, 
we will have to retest him in the 
next session anyhow. We’ll know 
then.” 

Magruder sat on the edge of a 
shelflike thing that doubled as a 
low tabic and a high bed. It wasn’t 
the most comfortable seat in the 
world, but it was all he had in the 
room; the floor was even harder. 

It had been several hours since 
he had been brought here, and he 
still didn’t feel good. That stinking 
machine had hurl\ He clenched his 
fists; he could still feel the knot in 
his stomach and — 

And then he realized lhat the knot 
in his stomach hadn’t been caused 
by the machine; he had thrown that 
off a long time back. 

The knot was caused by a tower- 
ing, thundering-great, ice-cold rage. 

He thought about it for a minute 
and then broke out laughing. Here 
he was, like a sl;upid fool, so angry 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



that he was making himself sick! 
And that wasn’t going to do him 
or the colony any good. 

It was obvious that the aliens were 
up to no good, to say the least. The 
colony at New Hilo numbered six 
thousand souls — the only humans on 
New Hawaii, except for a couple 
of bush expeditions. If this ship 
tried to take over the planet, there 
wouldn’t be a devil of a lot the 
colonists could do about it. And 
v/hat if the aliens found Earth it- 
self? He had no idea what kind of 
armament this spaceship carried nor 
how big it was — but it seemed to 
have plenty of room inside it. 

He knew it was up to him. He 
was going to have to do something, 
somehow. What? Could he get out 
of his cell and try to smash the 
ship? 

Nope. A naked man inside a bare 
cell was about as helpless as a human 
being can get. What, then? 

Magruder lay on his back and 
tliOLight about it for a long time. 

Presently, a panel opened in the 
tloor and a red-violet face appeared 
on the other side of a transparent 
sejuare in the door. 

"You are doubtless hungry,” it 
said solemnly. "An analysis of your 
bodily processes has indicated what 
you need in the way of sustenance. 
Here.” 

The quart-size mug that slid out 
of a niche in the wall had an odd 
aroma drifting up from it. Magruder 
picked it up and looked inside. It 
was a grayish-tan, semitranslucent 
liquid about the consistency of thin 



gravy. He touched the surface with 
his finger and then touched the fin- 
ger with his tongue. Its palate ap- 
peal was definitely on the negative 
side of zero. 

He could guess what it contained: 
A score, more or less, of various 
amino acids, a dozen vitamins, a 
handful of carbohydrate, and a few 
per cent of other necessities. A sort 
of pseudo-protoplasmic soup; an 
over-balanced meal. 

He wondered whether it contained 
anything that would do him harm, 
decided it probably didn’t. If the 
aliens wanted to dope him, they 
didn’t need to resort to subterfuge, 
and besides, this was probably the 
gunk they had fed him while he 
was learning the language. 

Pretending to himself that it was 
beef stew, he drank it down. Maybe 
he could think better on a full 
stomach. And, as it turned out, he 
was right. 

Less than an hour later, he was 
back in the interrogation chamber. 
This time, he was resolved to keep 
Thagobar’s finger off tlrat little 
button. 

After all, he reasoned to himself, 
1 might want to lie to someone, 
ivhen and if I get out of this. There’ s 
no point in getting a conditioned 
reflex against it. 

And the way the machine had hurt 
him, there was a strong possibility 
that he just might get conditioned 
if he took very many jolts like that. 

He had a plan. It was highly 
nebulous — little more tlian a prin- 



TIIE BEST POLICY 



133 



ciple, really, and it was highly flex- 
bile. He would simply have to take 
what came, depend on luck, and 
hope for the best. 

He sat down in the chair and 
waited for the wall to become trans- 
parent again. He had thought there 
might be a way to get out as he 
was led from his cell to the inter- 
rogation chamber, but he didn’t feel 
like tackling six heavily armored 
aliens all at once. He wasn’t even 
sure he could do much with just 
one of them. Where do you slug a 
guy whose nervous system you know 
nothing about, and whose body is 
plated like a boiler? 

The wall became transparent, and 
the alien was standing on the other 
side of it. Magruder wondered 
whether it v/as the same being who 
had questioned him before, and after 
looking at the design on the plas- 
tron, decided that it was. 

He leaned back in his chair, fold- 
ed his arms, and waited for the first 
question. 

Thagobar Verf was a very trou- 
bled Dal. He had very carefully 
checked the psychological data with 
General Orders after the psycholo- 
gists had correlated it according to 
the Handbook. He definitely did not 
like the looks of his results. 

General Orders merely said; "No 
race of this type has ever been found 
in the galaxy before. In this case, 
the commander will act according 
to GO 234,511,006-R-g, Ch. 
MMCDX, Par. 666.’’ 

After looking up the reference, he 

134 



had consulted with Zandoplith. 
"What do you think of it?” he 
asked. "And why doesn’t your sci- 
ence have any answers?” 

"Science, Your Splendor,” said 
Zandoplith, "is a process of obtain- 
ing and correlating data. We haven’t 
enough data yet, true, but we’ll get 
it. We absolutely must not panic at 
this point; we must be objective, 
purely objective.” He handed Thago- 
bar another printed sheet. "These 
are the next questions to be asked, 
according to the Handbook of Psy- 
chology.” 

Thagobar felt a sense of relief. 
General Orders had said that in a 
case like this, the authority of action 
was all dependent on his own de- 
cision; it was nice to know that the 
scientist knew what he was doing, 
and had authority to back it. 

He cut off the wall polarizer and 
faced the specimen on the other 
side. 

"You will answer the next several 
questions in the negative,” Thago- 
bar said. "It doesn’t matter what the 
real and truthful answer may be, you 
will say 'no'; is that perfectly clear?” 

"No,” said Magruder. 

Thagobar frowned. The instruc- 
tions seemed perfectly lucid to him; 
what was the matter with the speci- 
men? Was he possibly more stupid 
than they had at first believed? 

"He’s lying,” said Zandoplith. 

It took Thagobar the better part 
of half a minute to realize what had 
happened, and when he did, his 
face became unpleasantly dark. But 
there was nothing else he could do; 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



the specimen had obeyed orders. 

His Splendor took a deep breath, 
held it for a moment, eased it out, 
and began reading the questions in 
a mild voice. 

"Is your name Edwin?’’ 

"No." 

"Do you live on the planet be- 
neath us?” 

"No.” 

"Do you have six eyes?” 

"No.” 

After five minutes of that sort of 
thing, Zandoplith s.iid: "That’s 

enough. Your Splendor; it checks 
out; his nervous system wasn't 
affected by the pain. You may pro- 
ceed to the next list.” 

"From now on, you will answer 
truthfully,” Thagobar said. "Other- 
wise, you w'ill be punished again. 
Is ihcit clear?” 

"Perfectly clear,” said Magruder. 

Although his voice sounded per- 
fectly i.ilin, M.u;ruder, on the other 
side of file fr.uisparent wall, felt 
jusf .1 trifle sh.iky. He would have 
to think quickly and carefully from 
now on. He didn’t believe he’d care 
to take too much time in answering, 
cither. 

"How many homo .uipiens are 
there?” 

"Several billions.” There were 
actually about four billions, but the 
Dal equivalent of "several” was 
vaguely representative of numbers 
larger than five, although not neces- 
sarily so. 

"Don’t you know the actual num- 
ber?” 





THE BEST POLICY 



135 



"No,”' said Magruder. Not right 
down to the man, I don’t. 

The needle didn’t quiver. Natu- 
rally not^ — he was telling the truth, 
wasn’t he? 

. "All of your people surely aren’t 
on Earth, then?” Thagobar asked, 
deviating slightly from the script. 
"In only one city?” 

With a sudden flash of pure joy, 
Magruder saw the beautifully mon- 
strous mistake the alien had made. 
He had not suspected until now that 
Earthmen had developed space trav- 
el. Therefore, when he had asked 
the name of Magruder’s home plan- 
et, the answer he’d gotten was 
"Earth.” But the alien had been 
thinking of New Hawaii! Wheeee! 

"Oh, no,” said Magruder truth- 
fully, "we have only a few thousand 
down there.” Meaning, of course. 
New Hawaii, which was "down 
there.” 

"Then most of your people have 
deserted Earth?” 

"De.serted Earth?” Magruder 
sounded scandalized. "Heavens to 
Betsy, ho! We have merely colo- 
nized; we’re all under one central 
government.” 

"How many are there in each 
colony?” Thagobar had completely 
abandoned the script now. 

"I don’t know exactly,” Magruder 
told him, "but not one of our colo- 
nized planets has any more occupants 
on it 'than Earth.” 

Thi’gobar looked flabbergasted 
and flicked off the sound transmis- 
sion to the prisoner with a swift 
movement of his finger. 

136 



Zandoplith looked pained. "You 
are not reading the questions from 
the Handbook,” he complained. 

"I know, I know. But did you 
hear what he said?” 

"I heard it.” Zandoplith’s voice 
sounded morose. 

"It wasn’t true, was it?” 
Zandoplith drew himself up to 
his full five feet one. "Your Splen- 
dor, you have taken it upon yourself 
to deviate from the Handbook, but 
I will not permit you to question the 
operation of the Reality Detector. 
Reality is truth, and therefore truth 
is reality; the Detector hasn’t erred 
since . . . since ever\” 

"I know,” Thagobar said hastily. 
"But do you realize the implications 
of what he said? There arc a few 
thousand people on the home planet; 
all the colonies have less. And yet, 
there are several hiUinn of his race! 
That means they have occupied 
around ten million planets!” 

"I realize it sounds queer,” ad- 
mitted Zandoplith, "but the detec- 
tor never lies!” Then he realized 
whom he was addressing and added, 
"Your Splendor.” 

But Thagobar hadn’t noticed the 
breach of etiquette. "That’s perfectly 
true. But, as you said, there’s some- 
thing queer here. We must investi- 
gate further.” 

Magruder had already realized 
that his mathematics was off kilter; 
he was thinking at high speed. 

Thagobar’s voice said: "Accord- 
ing to our estimates, there are not 
that many habitable planets in the 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



galaxy. How do you account, then, 
for your statement?” 

With a quick shift of viewpoint, 
Magruder thought of Mars, so many 
light-years away. There had been a 
scientific outpost on Mars for a 
long time, but it was a devil of a 
long way from being a habitable 
planet. 

"My people,” he said judiciously, 
"are cap.iblc of living on planets- 
with surface conditions which vary 
widely from those of Earth.” 

Before Thagobar could ask any- 
thing else, another thought occurred 
to the Earthman. The thousand-inch 
telescope on Luna had discovered, 
spectroscopically, the existence of 
large planets in tlic Andromeda 
Nebula. "In addition," he continued 
blandly, "we have found planets in 
other galaxies than this.” 

There! That ought to confuse 
them ! 

Again the sound was cut off, and 
Magruder could sec the two aliens 
in liot discussion. When the sound 
came back again, Thagobar had 
sliifted to another tack. 

"How many spaceships do you 
have?” 

Magruder thought that one over 
for a long second. There were about 
a dozen interstellar ships in the 
Earth fleet — not nearly enough to 
colonize ten million planets. He was 
in a jam! 

No! Wait! A supply ship came 
to New Hawaii every six months. 
But there were no ships on New 
Hawaii. 

"Spaceships?” Magruder looked 



innocent. "Why, we have no space- 
ships.” 

Thagobar Verf shut off the sound 
again, and this time, he made the 
wall opaque, too. "No spaceships? 
No spaceships} He lied ... I 
hope?” 

Zandoplith shook his head dole- 
fully. "Absolute truth.” 

"But . . . but . . . but — " 

"Remember what he said his race 
called themselves?” the psychologist 
asked softly. 

Thagobar blinked very slowly. 
When he spoke, his voice was a 
hoarse whisper. "Beings with minds 
of vast power.” 

"Ex.actly,” said Zandoplith. 

Magruder sat in the interrogation 
chamber for a long time without 
hearing or seeing a thing. Had they 
made sense out of his statements? 
Were they beginning to realize what 
he was doing? He wanted to chew 
his nails, bite his lips, and tear his 
hair; instead, he forced himself to 
outward calm. There was a long way 
to go yet. 

When the wall suddenly became 
transparent once more, he managed 
to keep from jumping. 

"Is it true,” asked Thagobar, 
"that your race has the ability to 
move through space by means of 
mental power alone?” 

For a moment, Magrp^er was 
stunned. It was beyond his wildest 
expectations. But he rallied quickly. 

How does a man walk? he 
thought. 



THE BEST POLICY 



13 ? 



' "It is true that by using mental 
forces to control physical energy,” 
he said carefully, "we are able to 
move from place to place without 
the aid of spaceships or other such 
machines.” 

Immediately, the wall blanked 
again. 

Thagobar turned around slowly 
and looked at Zandoplith. Zandop- 
,lith’« face looked a dirty crimson; 
the healthy -violet had faded. 

"I guess you’d best call in the 
officers,” he said slowly; "we’ve got 
a monster on our hands.” 

It took three minutes for the 
twenty officers of the huge Verf to 
assemble in the Psychology Room. 
When they arrived, Thagobar asked 
them to relax and then outlined the 
situation. 

"Now,” he said, "are there any 
suggestions?” 

They were definitely not relaxed 
now. They looked as tense as bow- 
strings. 

Lieutenant Pelquesh was the first 
to speak. "What are the General 
Orders, Your Splendor?” 

"The General Orders,” Thagobar 
said, "are that we are to protect 
out ship and our race, if necessary. 
The methods for doing so arc left 
up to the commander’s discretion.” 

There was a rather awkward si- 
lence. Then a light seemed to come 
over Lieutenant Pelquesh’s face. 
"Your Splendor, we could simply 
drop an annihilation bomb on the 
planet.” 

Thagobar shook his head. "I’ve 
138 



already thought of that. If they can 
move themselves through space by 
means of thought alone, they w'ould 
escape, and their race would surely 
take vengeance for the vaporization 
of one of their planets.” ■ 

Gloom descended. 

"Wait a minute,” said Pelquesh. 
"If he can do that, why hasn’t he 
escaped from ns?” 

Magruder watched the wall be- 

come transparent. The room was 
filled with aliens now. The big 
cheese, Thagobar, was at the pickup. 

"We are curious,” he said, "to 

know why, if you can go anywhere 
at will, you have stayed here. Why 
don’t you escape?” 

More fast thinking. "It is ' not 
polite,” Magruder said, "for a guest 
to leave his host until the business 

at hand is finished.” 

"Lven after wc . . . ah . . . dis- 
ciplined you?” 

"Small discomforts can be over- 
looked, especially when the host is 
acting in abysmal ignorance.” 
There was a whispered question 
from one of Tliagobar’s underlings 
and a smattering of discussion, and 
then: 

"Are we to presume, then, that 
you bear us no ill will?” 

"Some,” admitted Margruder can- 
didly. "It is only because of your 
presumptuous behavior toward me, 
however, that I personally, am 
piqued. I can assure you that my 
race as a whole bears no ill will 
whatever towards your race as a 
whole or any member of it.” 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



Play H big, Magruder, he told 
himself. You’ve got ’em rocking—- 
I hope. 

More discussion on the other side 
of the wall. 

"You say,” said Thagobar, "that 
your race holds no ill will towards 
us; how do you know?” 

"I can say this,” Magruder told 
him; "1 know — beyond any shadow 
of a doubt — exactly what every per- 
son of my race thinks of you at this 
very moment. 

"In addition, let me point out 
that I have not been harmed as yet; 
they would have no reason to be 
angry. After all, you haven’t been 
destroyed yet.” 

Off went the sound. More heated 
discussion. On went the sound. 

"It has been suggested,” said 
Thagobar, "that, in spite of appear- 
ances, it was intended that we pick 
you, and you alone, as a specimen. 
It is suggested that you were sent 
to meet us.” 

Oh, brother! This one would have 
to be handled with very plush 
gloves. 

"I am but a very humble member 
of my race,” Magruder said as a 
prelude — mostly to gain time. But 
wait! He was an extraterrestrial 
biologist, wasn’t he? "However,” he 
continued with dignity, "my profes- 
sion is that of meeting alien beings. 
I was, I must admit, appointed to 
the job.” 

Thagobar seemed to grow tenser. 
"That, in turn, suggests that you 
knew we were coming.” 

Magruder thought for a second. 



It had been predicted for centuries 
that mankind would eventually meet 
an intelligent alien race. 

"We have known you were com* 
ing for a long time,” he said quite 
calmly. 

Thagobar was visibly agitated 
now. "In that case, you must know 
where our race is located in the 
galaxy; you must know where our 
home base is.” 

Another tough one. Magruder 
looked through the wall at Thagobar 
and his men standing nervously on 
the other side of it. "I know where 
you are,” he said, "and I know ex* 
actly where every one of your fellows 
is.” 

There was sudden consternation 
on the other side of the wall, but 
Thagobar held his ground. 

"What is our location then?” 

For a second, Magruder thought 
they’d pulled the rug out from under 
him at last. And then he saw that 
there was a perfect explanation. 
He’d been thinking of dodging so 
long that he almost hadn’t seen the 
honest answer. 

He looked at Thagobar pityingly. 
"Communication by voice is so in- 
adequate. Our co-ordinate system 
would be completely unintelligible 
to you, and you did not teach me 
yours, if you will recall.” Which 
was perfectly true; the Dal would 
have been foolish to teach their 
co-ordinate system to a specimen — ■ 
the clues might have led to their 
home base. Besides, General Orders 
forbade it. 



THE BEST POLICY 



139 



More conversation on the other 
side. 

Thagobar again: "If you are in 
telepathic communication with your 
fellows, can you read our minds?” 

Magruder looked at him superci- 
liously. "I have principles, as does 
my race; we do not enter any mind 
uninvited.” 

"Do the rest of your people know 
the location of our bases, then?” 
Thagobar asked plaintively. 

Magruder’s voice was placid. "I 
assure you, Thagobar Verf, that 
everyone of my people, on every 
planet belonging to our race, knows 
as much about your home base and 
its location as I do.” 

Magruder was beginning to get 
tired of the on-and-off sound system, 
but he resigned himself to wait while 




the aliens argued among them- 
selves. 

"It has been pointed out,” Thago- 
bar said, after a few minutes, "that 
it is very odd that your race has 
never contacted us before. Ours is 
a very old and powerful race, and 
we have taken planets throughout 
a full half of the galaxy, and yet, 
your race has never been seen nor 
heard of before.” 

"We have a policy,” said Mag- 
ruder, "of not disclosing our pres- 
ence to another race until it is to 
our advantage to do so. Besides, we 
have no quarrel with your race, and 
we have never had any desire to take 
your homes away from you. Only 
if a race becomes foolishly and 
insanely belligerent do we trouble 
ourselves to show them our power.” 

It was a long speech — maybe too 
long. Had he stuck strictly to the 
truth? A glance at Zandoplith told 
him; the chief psychologist had kept 
his beady black eyes on tire needle 
all through the long proceedings, 
and kept looking more and more 
worried as the instrument indicated 
a steady flow of truth. 

Thagobar looked positively ap- 
prehensive. As Magruder had be- 
come accustomed to the aliens, it 
had become more and more auto- 
matic to read their expressions. After 
all, he held one great advantage: 
they had made the mistake of teach- 
ing him their language.^ He knew 
them, and they didn’t know him. 

Thagobar said: "Other races, then, 
have been . . . uh , , . punished by 
yours?” 



140 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



"Not in my lifetime,” Magruder 
told him. He thought of homo nean- 
derthalensis and said: "There was 
a race, before my time, which defied 
us. It no longer exists.” 

"Not in your lifetime? How old 
are you?” 

"Look into your magniscreen at 
the planet below,” said the Earthman 
in a solemn tone. "When I was 
born, not a single one of the plants 
you see existed on Earth. The con- 
tinents of Earth were nothing like 
that; the seas were entirely different. 

"The Earth on which I was born 
had extensive ice caps; look below 
you and you will see none. And yet, 
wc have done notliing to change 
the planet you see; any changes that 
have taken place have come by the 
long process of geologic evolution.” 
"Gleek!” It was a queer sound 
that came from Thagobar’s throat 
just before a switch cut off the wall 
and the sound again. 

fu\t like watching a movie on an 
old filin, Magruder thought. No 
ionnd Ihdj the time, and it breaks 
every so often. 

'I'hc wall never became transpar- 
ent again. Instead, after about half 
an hour, it slid up silently to disclose 
the entire officer’s corps of the Verf 
standing at rigid attention. 

Only Thagobar Larnimisculus 
Verf, Borgax of Fenigwisnok, stood 
at ease, and even so, his face seemed 
less purple than usual. 

"Edwin Peter St. John Magruder,” 

THE 

THE BEST POLICY 



he intoned, "as commander, of this 
vessel. Noble of the Grand Empire, 
and representative of the. Emperor 
himself, we wish to exterjd to you 
our most cordial hospitality, 
"Laboring under the delusion that 
you represented a lower form of 
life, we have treated you ignomini- 
ously, and for that we offer our 
deepest apologies.” , 

"Think nothing of it,” said Mag- 
ruder coolly. "The only thing that 
remains is for you to land your ship 
on our planet so that your race and 
mine can arrange things to our 
mutual happiness.” He looked at all 
of them. "You may relax,” he added 
imperiously. "And bring me my 
clothes.” 

The human race wasn’t out of the 
hole yet; Magruder was perfectly 
well aware of that. Just what should 
be done with the ship and the aliens 
when they landed, he wasn’t quite 
sure; it would have to be left up to 
the decision of the President of New 
Hawaii and the Government of 
Earth. But he didn’t foresee any 
great difficulties. 

As the Verf dropped toward the 
surface of New Hawaii, its com- 
mander sidled over to Magruder and 
said, in a troubled voice: "Do you 
think your people will like us?” 
Magruder glanced at the lie detec- 
tor. It was off. 

"Like you? Why, they’ll love 
you,” he said. i.i 

He was sick and tited of being 
honest. 

END 



141 




THE REFERENCE LIBRARY 



BY P. SCHUYLER MILLER 



THREE MEN 

Raymond King Cummings — Ray 
Cummings to a generation of sci- 
ence-fiction readers, and to a few 
younger collectors — died on January 
23 rd at the age of sixty-nine. Some 
of you had the good fortune to 
meet him at the opening session of 
the New York Convention, where 
he made onenf his rare appearances; 
some of the pocket-book oriented 
current generation of fandom, I’m 
told, had no idea who he was. 

Ray Cummings was one of the 
handful of men who shaped modern 
science fiction in the days before 



the Gernsback magazines and before 
John Campbell’s Astounding. A. 
Merritt came closest to literary stat- 
ure, with his Tennysonian flair for 
color and lu.sh imaginings. Edgar 
Rice Burroughs was the most popu- 
lar: he set the pattern for un- 

abashed actioin-atlventurc, "space 
opera” without space. John Taine — 
still active, but not writing — played 
with scientific concepts as the other 
two played with the fantasy and 
adventure of hidden places; until the 
advent of Amaz'mg Quarterly his 
novels appeared only as books. 
Murray Leinster was the epitome 
of the professional, adaptable as an 



142 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 




amoeba, trying everything and 
doing it all well and sometimes very 
well. He is the only one of them 
who never became dated. And 
there was Ray Cummings . . . 

I discovered him first in the sum- 
mer of 1924, in Gernsback’s Science 
and Invention, where “The Man 
On the Meteor” was running. I 
never succeeded in reading it all; 
the library where I found some back 
issues coiiii, plained that kids like me 
were cutting tlrose pages out. Then 
a boy down the street introduced 
me to Argosy All-Story, and there 
I found Ray Cummings’ home 
ground. 'I'liere, all through the late 
’20s ami the ’30s, we waited breath- 
lessly for every week’s new install- 
ment. Burroughs, by then, we could 
take or let alone. Merritt was a 
rare and wonderful treat, sometimes 
pretty hard to understand unless you 
were intoxicated with the sound of 
words. But in Ray Cummings’ 
serials color and wonder never end- 
ed and evcryblaing was beautifully 
clear. 

Dob Davis, greatest of the pulp 
editors of that era, said: “He is a 
Jules Verne returned and an H. G. 
Wells going forward.” Like Verne, 
Ray Cummings made scientific won- 
ders the core of his stories, but 
where Verne built securely on the 
science of his day, Cummings seized 
on the bints of a future science and 
spun his yarns around them. As 
far as I know, he was the first to 
add a strong, if melodramatic, plot 
to the gimmick of H. G. Wells’ 
“Time Machine,” and in “The Man 

THE KEFERENCE LIBRARY 



Who Mastered Time” pretty well 
established tlie formula of the time- 
travel stories we are still reading and 
writing. By the same token, I think 
he was the first to graft the still 
new concept of Bohr’s planetary 
atom on the theme of Fitzjames 
O’Brien’s “Crystal -Lens” and make 
the world-in-the-atom his own. It 
would be hard to find a variety of 
science fiction to wthich he didn’t at 
some time turn his practiced, com- 
petent hand. 

He had something else, too, that 
Merritt had, and Talbot Mundy, but 
Burroughs didn’t — he had style. 
You could open a copy of Argosy 
at random and begin to read, and 
if you had opened to a Cummings 
story, you knew it. English teachers 
threw up their hands in horror at 
the incomplete, choppy sentences — 
but it was effective. Looking back, it 
seems to me that it was a hybrid 
between the ahnost absurd simplicity 
that Dr. David H. Keller was short- 
ly contributing to Amazing, and 
Merritt’s flow of sound and color. 
You knew just what was happening, 
and feared for what was going to 
happen, even though you recognized 
subconsciously that just about every 
Cummings plot turned out the same 
way. 

In view of what has been reprint- 
ed by the paper-back publishers in 
the last few years, it has always been 
a puzzle to me that none of them 
have picked up some of Ray Cum- 
mings’ many serials and put them 
between covers. I’m not so sure that 
they would be dated and unaccept- 

143 



able to today’s young readers, who 
apparently follow the PB’s even 
more than the magazines. The sim- 
ple Good versus Evil plots might 
seem corny to a generation fed on 
the sadism of private eye guns-and- 
guts stories and the "realism” of 
Confidential, but the color is there, 
the action is tliere, and the words 
are simple and understandable. Try 
it, Ace, backed up against some- 
thing modern. 

1956 was also the year in which 
wc lost Fletcher Pratt. It’s too late 
now to add my few .sJiavings to tlic 
fire that has burned in his honor. 
Still, it seems to me that he was a 
figure in science fiction rather than 
a force. A man who was very defi- 
nitely a force, and without whom 
this magazine wouldn’t be here, died 
on October 22nd — F. Orlin Tre- 
maine, Astounding’s first editor un- 
der the Street & Smith banner. 

Frederick Orlin Tremaine was 
probably the most professionally 
skilled editor ever to Iran die a sci- 
ence-fiction magazine. He started 
with two strikes against him, and 
an hostile umpire. The Gernsback 
followers and the loyal Amazing 
league had their backs up against 
cheap imitators, and Astounding 
under the Clayton name had never 
found itself. Under Tremaine’s edi- 
torship and the Street & Smith policy 
of buying the best, the magazine 
quickly forged into first place in 
quality, in circulation, and in the 
number of striking "thought vari- 
ant” gimmicks it tossed out for the 



faithful to wrangle over. Astounding 
became, if tlie simile isn’t too strain- 
ed, the general-fiction magazine of 
the science-fiction field. It was a 
policy that worked, or Jolin Camp- 
bell would never have had the op- 
portunity to take over when 'J‘rc- 
maine became S&S’s editorial direc- 
tor. 

In his introduction to the hand- 
some Heritage Press edition of 
Jules Verne’s "Twenty Thousand 
Leagues Under the Sea” (325 |sp; 
1956; $5.00), Fletcher Pratt points 
out how very thoughtfully Verne 
elcsigncd Captain Nemo’s Nanlil/it. 
He powered it with electricity- 
equipped it with electric stoves and 
fluorescent lamps — "trimmed” it for 
diving with a device that wouldn't 
be used for a generation — used .1 
telephonic intercom systein, and 
diving suits that antieijrated the 
flexibility of present-day skin-diving 
rigs. Verne was the father of the 
Heinlein-Clement school of pains- 
takingly thought-out detail, where 
Wells founded the "what will hap- 
pen if” school. 

The man behind the book is tlie 
subject of a recent biography by 
Verne’s niece by marriage. Marguer- 
ite Allotte de la Fuye, "Jules Verne, 
Prophet of a New Age” (Coward- 
McCann, New York. 1956. 222 pp. 
$3.95). The book, translated from 
the French, has been written pri- 
marily from family letters and other 
papers. It .shows him , as the son, 
uncle and father — the young Bohe- 
mian who wrote operettas and 
musical skits, circulated in the lit- 



144 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



erary society of ihis day, exercised a 
vigorous sense of humor with more 
diligence than judgment, and all the 
while read omnivorously in every 
field of science. He went from 
music to the stock exchange, deter- 
mined always to write — and when 
"Five Weeks in a Balloon’’ became 
an overnight sensation, the dam 
burst. Verne never, it seems, found 
it hard to write: his mind was brim- 
ming with ideas, characters, inci- 
dents, plots, background detail. He 
had to write, and he had to write 
science fiction, though this was only 
a small part of his tremendous pro- 
dLiction of novels and sihort stories, 
most of them never put into Eng- 
lish. 

You won’t learn much about 
Verne’s books in this family por- 
trait; there is not even a list, and 
the dates are hard to pin down. 
You may not be able to visualize 
him as the young hedonist with the 
back out of his shirt; although the 
author frequently describes photo- 
graphs in the family archives, she 
doesn’t show them — at least, this 
edition doesn’t. The only portrait 
is on the jacket, and that shows the 
familiar gray-beard of his later, 
famous years. You will understand 
only indirectly Verne’s relationship 
to the science and the scientific 
thinkers of his time, and how they 
were reflected in his books. Some 
day there will probably be a defini- 
tive biography of Verne, the writer. 
When it comes, it will have to draw 
on the same intimate details which 
went into this book, but it will step 



outside the family circle and show 
us Verne as his world saw him. 

Verne was the father of science 
fiction as popular literature. Ray 
Cummings, a generation later, pro- 
jected Verne’s formula into the 
future while holding to the basic 
principle that these must be exciting 
stories. F. Orlin Tremaine built a 
magazine around these factors: proj- 
ection plus entertainment — and here 
we are. 



Strangers in the Universe, by 
Clifford Simak. Simon and Schus- 
ter, New York. 1956. 371 pp. 
$3.50 

When names like Heinlein and 
Van Vogt, Kuttner and Asimov are 
brought up as pioneers of "modern” 
science fiction, someone is always 
doing a double-take when he re- 
members Simak. Because this veter- 
an’s stories go way back into the 
Gernsback days, and they’ve been 
good all along. Whether he has run 
neck-and-neck with the big-name 
leaders, or paced them most of the 
way, it’s hard to say. 

Eight magazines and six years 
(1950-56) are covered by the eleven 
stories in this collection. As you’d 
gather from the title, they are all 
more or less followers of one theme: 
Man and Alien, meeting among the 
stars. "Ingenious, provocative, enter- 
taining” the publishers say on the 
jacket and it’s perfectly true. 

In "Shadow Show,” the opening 
story, a scientist-team has been 
marooned on an asteroid with in- 



THE REFERENCE LIBRARY 



145 



structions to create life. They have 
invented a game of mental projec- 
tion to fill their dead hours — and the 
Game begins to seem too real. "Con- 
traption” has been in many anthol- 
ogies: it’s the one about the alien 
machine 'which finds an orphan boy’s 
real need. Later in the book, "Kin- 
dergarten” is almost the same story 
told in entirely different terms: the 
machine that grants wishes, then 
begins to build a shining tower that 
shuts out all but a few . . . 

"The Answers” is an epilogue to 
the Man-and-Dog "City” .sequence: 
I’m not sure whether it was included 
in that book. 

"The Fence” is a slight, gimmicky 
tale not up to its company, but 
"Target Generation” evokes tlic 
problems of keeping a goal tlimugli 
the generations when Man uses tlie 
only feasible means of reaching the 
stars, and does it convincingly. 
"Beachhead” captures the alien 
mood in its description of a world 
where everything goes wrong, 
though the mechanism isn’t really 
convincing. 

"Mirage” gives us men versus 
Martians in a little tale that could 
almost have come off Bradbury’s 
typewriter. "Skirmish” uses some of 
the author’s newspaper background 
for a chilling little fable of the re- 
volt of the machines. "Retrograde 
Evolution” offers a disturbing an- 
swer to the problem of ending war, 
and the closing story — and one of 
the best — "Immigrant,” again puts 
Man in his place among the junior 
races of the universe. 

146 



Mission to the Moon, by Lester 

del Rey. 

The Lost Planet, by Paul Dallas. 

Winston Co., Philadelphia. 1956. 

206 & 209 pp. $2.00 

The Schomburg jackets which 
have become a trademark of (his 
series of juvenile science-fiction 
novels fit the 1956 offerings very 
nicely. Lester del Rey’s sequel to 
his "Step to the Stars” carries Man 
from the space-station to the Moon, 
while the first offering of an Fnglish 
writer, Paul Dallas, concerns itself 
with races-of-good-will on a galac- 
tic level. Both are good, middle-ol- 
the-road SF which should give teen- 
agers an introduction both to the 
themes of the genre, and to some of 
tlie stereotypes. 

The del Rey book is (he better of 
the two, but it has (he advan(a/;e 
of a kind of re.dism (h.it can key 
into the Vanguard project. Jim 
Stanley, who became a space pilot 
and helped build the space station 
in the earlier book, is called back 
to help put together the Moon ship. 
As a complication, the Russian- Asian 
Combine puts a satellite in the same 
orbit, bringing the military aspect 
into the open and setting otf a |uib- 
lic drive to outlaw both satellites 
and the Moon-expedition. Finally, 
the brattish son of the satellite com- 
mandant takes off for the Moon in 
a stolen rocket, and Jim’s final prob- 
lem is ready for solution. 

"The Lost Planet” takes us far 
enough into the future for trouble 
to be brewing between Mankind and 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



the octopoid people of Poseida. Ex- 
perimental ships, trying to reach 
light-speed, have been disappearing 
and a powerful element on Earth 
blames the Poseidans and is urging 
war. The young hero of the book. 
Bill Hudson, becomes friends with 
a Poseidan youngster during a vaca- 
tion on the "lost” planet, and, as is 
often the case in these books, a 
league of young-people-of-good-will 
solve the scientific mysteries of what 
happens at light-speed and persuades 
the pompous and blundering adults 
to turn away from war. The "secret” 
of the missing ships is not very ten- 
able, but is no wor.se than the rela- 
tivistic antics employed in many an 
adult book. 

Incidentally, I owe Andre Norton 
■ — alias Andrew North an apology 
for ever supposing she might have 
been the Eric North whose "Ant 
Men” is the one real lemon in this 
Winston series. This means that the 
Australian setting is probably as 
realistic as the publishers claimed, 
but the story is still the oldest of old 
stuff. 



Star Ways, by Poul Anderson. 

Avalon Books, New York. 1956. 

224 pp. |2.75 

If anybody is going to bring back 
the plain good story, convincingly 
told, with suspense, likable people, 
and solid backgrounds, I guess Poul 
Anderson is the man to do it. Here 
is an original book, rather short, 
that is enjoyable from first to last: 
no lessons, no phony significance. 



but none the less a deep feeling for 
the things that will set the Vikings 
of space apart from other men. 

The ship-clans of the Nomads 
are the traders of the galaxy, living 
by their own laws, for their own 
purposes, and generally at odds with 
the Co-ordination and Survey au- 
thorities back on Earth, whose 
thankless job it is to keep human 
civilization from fragmenting into 
warring local cultures. Peregrine 
Joachim Henry, one of the most 
respected of the ships’ captains, 
meets his fellow space-rovers with 
evidence that an unknown, hostile 
civilization is gathering strength in 
one of the least known sectors of 
the star-clouds. The Peregrine goes 
to investigate, taking with her a 
Co-ordination agent, Trevelyn Micah, 
and a beautiful nonhuman girl, 
Ilaloa, whose telepathic powers may 
help them smell out the unknown. 
And so their troubles start . . . 

It's fast-moving, convincing, and 
beautifully done. The flashes of 
other worlds and other cultures have 
depth and reality, and the central 
characters come alive by living. This 
new SF publisher is going great 
guns ! 



The Best from Fantasy and Sci- 
ence Fiction, edited by Anthony 
Boucher. Doubleday & Co., Gar- 
den City. 1957. 255 pp. $3.50 

This is the sixth volume of this 
annual series, and for once the pub- 
lisher has had sense enough to say 
so on the jacket. Whatever you may 



THE REFERENCE LIBRARY 



147 



feel about the relative merits of the 
other annuals, the "Best” selections 
by T. E. Dikty and Judith Merril, 
you know from the start that this 
will almost certainly have the great- 
est variety and be the least predict- 
able, as does the magazine from 
which the stories are taken. 

I’ll have to say riglit away that 
some previous volumes in the series 
have been better. I miss certain 
stories, either because they didn’t 
fall inside whatever span the editor 
used — parts of 1955 and 1956 — 
or because someone else got ’em 
first. Or, I suppose, because Tony 
Boucher decided they would spoil 
the balance of his book, which he 
has put together as carefully as any 
issue of his magazine. 

Among the fifteen stories- sea- 
soned with snatches of verse — there 
are fewer fantasies than you would 
suppose from the magazine that has 
taken Unknoivns honored place but 
never imitated it. Mildred Clinger- 
m'an’s "Mr. Sakrison’s Halt” is an 
understanding little tale about an old 
lady searching for a moment lost in 
her youth. Rachel Maddux has an 
off-beat ghost story in "Final Clear- 
ance.” Poul Anderson has dev- 
astated the whole Conan con- 
cept with a blunt broadsword in his 
chronicle of Cronkheit, "The Bar- 
barian”- — and done a beautifully 
definitive time-travel-past story in 
"The Man Who Came Early.” And 
that’s about it. 

As for the SF, the Anderson story 
of an American MP thrown back 
into Iceland of one thousand years 

148 



ago is simple, convincing and in- 
evitable. Another favorite of mine 
is Jay Williams’ "The Asa Rule,” 
with an anthropological — or, per- 
haps, 1 should say xenological-- 
treatment of contrasting culture 
values on Mars. Theodore Sturgeon’s 
"And Now the News . . .” is science 
fiction in the sense that Dr. David 
Keller’s little classic, "The Dead 
Woman,” is: it’s a penetrating .stiuly 
of psychosis. C. S. Lewis dips into 
another human mind in "The 
Shoddy Lands,” and Ray Bradbury 
draws poetry out of still a third in 
"Icarus Montgolfier Wright.” 

The grim is here, too: nowhere 
grimmer than in Frederik Polil's 
"The Census Takers” — though a 
gimmick offsets the picture of a 
mercilessly statistical society- or 
Will Stanton’s "The Last Prc.scnt,” 
in which a boy is away from home 
a little too long. Ward Moore's "No 
Man Pursueth" is a kind of morality, 
which you can take as SF or fantasy, 
according to your view of the uni- 
verse. And Avram Davidson, in 
"King’s Evil,” recreates England of 
nearly two centuries ago in a way 
that reminds me of John Dickson 
Carr. 

The sly, wry or exuberant humor 
that you automatically expect from 
r&SF is most outspoken in the mis- 
adventures of Cronkheit, but it is 
also there in C. M. Kornbluth's 
study of Functional Epistemology, 
which in "The Cosmic Expense 
Account” is shown to have at least 
the potentialities of General Seman- 
tics, and Ron Smith’s "I Don’t 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



Mind.” And as for straight-off-the- 
counter, standard, down-the-middle 
SF, Charles L. Fontenay investigates 
a far world where men are the 
draft horses and horseburgers of an 
alien race, in "The Silk and the 
Song.” 

It’s good, but it’s not really the 
best F&SP has to offer during that 
period. As I said, someone else must 
have slipped in first. 



Tales oe Gooshflesh and Laugh- 
ter, liy John Wyndham. Ballan- 
tine Books, New York. 1956. 150 
pp. 35f 

Coincidence is cjuite properly ab- 
horred by all critics and most writers 
(let me tell you about my own 
"impossible” coincidence some time: 
the one that involves such unlikely 
things as a Pleistocene caribou, an 
unco-operative employer, an unin- 
formed mother, my great-grandfa- 
ther, and of course myself, with a 
puddle-catfish for irrelevant trim- 
ming). However, if my copy of this 
collection had not lost itself in the 
early holiday mails, I would never 
have read Ballantine’s January title, 
Arthur Clarke’s "Tales From the 
White Hart,” first. And I would 
never have realized that these eleven 
prodigies also stem from that pres- 
ent-day Mermaid Tavern, where the 
elite among England’s science-fiction 
practitioners sit quietly and get their 
stories from the people who lived 
them ... 

It is true that four of the tales 
THE KEFERENCE LIBRARY 



are fantasies, and obviously never 
could have happened to anyone but 
the White Hart’s regulars — Harry 
Purvis, for example. It is also true 
that others of the alleged science- 
fiction episodes have a certain air of 
rolling-eyed abandon quite at vari- 
ance with the author’s grimmer 
chronicles, such as , "Re-Birth” or 
"Out of the Deeps.” But — well. I’ve 
given you my conclusions, so let’s 
see what you get for a well invested 
thirty-five cents. 

To dispose of the fantasies first, 
the book opens with "Chinese Puz- 
zle,” the story of a respectable, 
middle-aged "Welsh couple whose 
son sent them a dragon egg from 
China, who hatched it out, and 
whose outlandish pet soon brought 
on difficulties with a dragon of an- 
other color. You will find "More 
Spinned Against,” which explains 
what happened to an inoffensive col- 
lector of spiders when he trapped 
Arachne herself, patron and epitome 
of arachnids. 

In "Present from Brunswick” 
you will follow to a logical 
conclusion the disturbances arising 
in a suburban hamlet when an- 
other outlandish gift was intro- 
duced into a meeting of the Pleasant- 
grove (U. S. A.) • Cultural Club 
Musical Society (Recorder Section). 
And in "Confidence Trick,” you 
will encounter a kind of "Infernal 
Omnibus” to counteract the celestial 
vehicle described by a fellow-coun- 
tryman of Mr. Wyndham’s. 

"Una” you may recognize: it’s the 
account of what happened when a 

149 



crusading agent of the Society for 
the Suppression of the Maltreatment 
of Animals came up against the 
"perfect animal’’ created by a neigh- 
boring scientist. It’s pure White Hart 
fare, as is "Heaven Scent,’’ an ad- 
venture in olifactory essences, and 
"Jizzle," the exploits of a remark- 
able monkey named Giselle, who 
also gave her name to one of the 
English short-story collections in 
which some of these yarns appeared. 
"Opposite Number’’ offers some- 
thing like a fission theory of time 
as explanation for the difficult situ- 
ation which arose among Peter 
Ruddle, himself, and his ex-iiance 
wife. "Wild Flower’’ is a delicate 
little tale that might have been told 
by one of the quiet persons in a 
back corner — Dunsany’s Jorkens, 
who frequents the place, was always 
coming up witli something of the 
kind. 

We are left with two stories 
which may have reached the osten- 
sible author by other me.ins, though 
they may well be something con- 
tributed by one of Professor Soal’s 
experts in precognition. The lighter 
of the two, quite in the White Hart 
mood, is "Compassion Circuit.’’ It 
points out that we can go too far in 
humanizing our robots. "The 
Wheel,’’ on the other hand, makes 
clear that whatever we do to our 
society through fear of science, we 
are not likely to de-humanize our- 
selves. 

Maybe you’ve concluded that I 
enjoyed this collection as much as 
I did "White Hart." I did, and do. 

150 



I hope someone else puts both of 
them between hard covers. 



The A.STOUNDING Science Fiction 

Anthology, edited by John W. 

Campbell, Jr. Berkeley Books, 

N. Y. 1957. 188 pp. 35f 

Tlie original "ASF Anihology,” 
published by Simon and Siluister in 
1952, ranked second only lo the 
classic Healy-McComas "Advenimes 
in Time and Space" as most popul.ir 
anthology, in our last summer's poll. 
'Fhis is the second paper-bat ked 
selection of stories from the big 
book. You’ll find them familiar, be- 
cause most of them are true da.ssiis, 
but at this price that should slojr 
nobody — if only to reread them. 

There are eight stories in the lot, 
leal off by Isaat Asimov's unfoiget- 
table "Nightfall" and Murray l.ein- 
ster’s equally definitive "First (.on- 
tact." Clifford D. Simak’s "Eternity 
Tost" is one of the equally definitive 
treatments of immortality. A. E. van 
■Vogt’s "Vault of the Beast" is one of 
the author’s early monster stories. 
John Pierce — as "J. J. Coupling”- -- 
gave us "Invariant," a sleep-till- 
tomorrow variant, and Henry Kutt- 
ner, as "Lewis Padgett," offered 
"When the Bough Bends," the story 
of a super-baby and his tutors from 
the future. Kris Neville contributes 
"Cold War,” a problem of the space 
stations, and Lester del Rey — of 
whom we hear too little nowadays 
— closes the book with "Over the 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



Top,” in which a Martian helps a 
man make a basic decision about the 
future of man on Earth and Mars. 

I’d say only the Van Vogt and 
Pierce items are below the best level 
of this magazine’s "good old days” 
— 1940-1949 are the years spanned 
— and they, too, are representative 
of factors that went into the pattern 
of modern science fiction as this 
editor, these authors, and this maga- 
zine made it. 

SECOHO TIME AROyND 

FORBIDDEN AREA, by Pat Frank. 
Bantam Books, N. Y. 1957. 214 
pp. 350. A superior suspense- 
and-spy thriller whose borderline 
claim to SF lies in the fact that 
it describes an approaching Rus- 
sian attack on the United States 
that hasn’t happened yet. 

MEN AGAINST THE STARS, 
edited by Martin Greenberg. Pyra- 
mid Books, N. Y. 1957. 191 pp. 
350. Nine stories out of Gnome 
Press’ 1950 "theme” anthology, 
perhaps the best Marty Greenberg 
has put together. All but one were 
first published here. Authors: 
Wellman, Williams, Padgett, 



Walton, van Vogt, Clement, 
Leinster, Hull, Hubbard. 

THE REPORT ON UNIDENTI- 
FIED FLYING OBJECTS, by 
Edward J. Ruppelt. Ace Books, 
New York. 1956. 318 pp. 350. 
The author, you’ll recall, headed 
the Air Force’s Project Blue Book 
from 1951 until 1953. It’s the 
sanest Flying Saucer book in print, 
and the only one whose author 
has really used official sources. 

THE AGE OF THE TAIL, by H. 
Allen Smith. Bantam Books, New 
York, 1956. 117 pp. 111. 250. This 
is the year when — come next 
September 22nd at 5:35 a.m., 
EDST — Mankind will regain his 
heritage and start to grow a tail. 
This dead-pan scientific study has 
been handed back from a future 
when our society has begun to 
adjust to the change. 

THE INVISIBLE MAN, by H. G. 
Wells. Pocket Books, N. Y. 1957. 
150 pp. 250. In treatment, at 
least, this is probably the closest 
of Wells’ stories to modern SF: 
lots of plot, action, and a gimmick 
around which the whole thing 
spins. 



THE END 



★ ★★★★★★★★★ 



THE reference library 



151 



{Continued from page 6) 

Now the way to get a perfect score 
on a test is to give exactly the an- 
swers the tester considered ideal, or 
perfect. The consequence is that 
"perfect” turns out to be "You an- 
swer just the way I think you 
should, and that shows you are 
perfect.” 

On one test intended to measure 
IQ in superior adults, a friend of 
mine took the test and found the 
question "What planet is nearest the 
Earth?” He answered "Venus,” and 
was scored wrong. The psychologists 
who prepared the test were not as- 
tronomers, and had decidedly inade- 
quate astronomical knowledge; by 
knowing more about the subject 
than the test-makers, my friend got 
a lotver score than another man, 
who was as ill-informed as the psy- 
chologists, would have. 

Ashby, in one of his papers, 
points out that no human IQ score 
over two hundred has ever been 
found. Agreed. None will be found, 
either. An individual who did in 
fact have total comprehension of all 
fields of human knowledge, with 
perfectly accurate, and unlimited 
data, and had enormously rapid, and 
perfectly accurate thinking processes, 
would, by definition, arrive at an- 
swers other than those the test- 
makers considered perfect. The per- 
fect thinker will arrive at answers 
that differ from those derived by 
imperfect thinkers. The psychologists 
preparing the tests are, admittedly, 
humanly limited people, and hence 
arrive at imperfect answers. But a 

152 



perfect score is made by arriving at 
the same answers. 

Therefore, the intelligence-ampli- 
fier would, because it achieved super- 
humanly precise answers, depart 
from a perfect score, and it would 
be said that, by test, it did not have 
an IQ above about one hundred 
thirty. 

Incidentally, given a telepathic- 
clairvoyant individual of minimal 
ability to think, his IQ would be un- 
measurable. He would always get a 
jierfect score on any test; he’d get 
the answers from the test-maker's 
mind. 

The second objection I raise is 
different. The real and fundamental 
test is that of solving the problems 
of real-world living. To a psycholo- 
gist's way of thinking, Leonardo da 
Vinci had an IQ of only about one 
hundred thirty, Isaac Newton of only 
about one hundred twenty; IQ test 
results aren’t the true test of intel- 
ligence anyway. Let’s test the intel- 
ligence amplifier against real-world 
problems. 

Suppose we assign it the problem: 
"'What methods can solve the social, 
economic and political problems of 
India most quickly, and with maxi- 
mum advantage to the people of 
India?” 

The intelligent machine is given 
all world history, science, religion, 
everything possible, in the way of 
data to work with. It manipulates 
these factors, and comes to a con- 
clusion; The best way for a rapid, 
complete, and long-range solution of 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



the economic, social and political 
problems demands cross-breeding of 
the highly inbred castes of India. 
The quality of the entire population 
can be drastically raised in a few 
generations, while the caste system 
itself would be eliminated, thus 
breaking many of the major eco- 
nomic barriers. 

"Let the males of the highest caste 
marry females of the second caste, 
but mate with as large a number of 
the lower castes as possible. The fe- 
males of the highest caste should 
marry males of the second caste, to 
maximi^ic cross-breeding. The lower 
caste females should, to as large a 
degree as possible, be bred to high- 
est class males. Every lower caste 
female shoulil bear one child by a 
highest caste male before being 
mated to lower caste males.” 

There is excellent evidence for the 
validity of this solution; every ani- 
mal breeder is well aware of the 
effect of "breeding up” a herd of 
scrub cattle by the introduction of 
one high-bred male. It is entirely 
sound on the basis of the laws of 
genetics. 

Furthermore, history shows the 
effect of precisely such a system; 
Europe practiced it for centuries, 
where the low-caste, or serf, females, 
under the doctrine of jus primae 
metis, were required to mate with 
a high-caste male before mating with 
a low-caste male. 

The "rise of the middle classes” 
is an historical phenomenon unique 
to European history — as was that 
hybridization system. 



The intelligence amplifier's solu- 
tion would be very intelligent in- 
deed ... as a logical plan. The in- 
telligence amplifier’s component 
parts would, however, be scattered 
over a very wide area, in very small 
units, almost as soon as the proposed 
solution became known. 

But . . . whoa back! Wait a min- 
ute! This is an intelligent, in fact, 
by definition, a hyper-intelligent 
entity, supplied with all available 
data of human history. Having all 
the data of human history, and in- 
telligence, it would not only derive 
that solution, but would also accu- 
rately predict what would happen if 
it were published. It would, tlrere- 
fore, be too intelligent to make any 
such immediately-lethal suggestion. 

Further careful consideration of 
the total situation would lead the 
Intelligent Amplifier to report, 
"Gee, Boss . . . that’s too tough for 
me. What do you think we should 
do, huh?” 

That is the redly intelligent an- 
swer. Demonstration of hyper-intel- 
ligence, solving problems in terms 
of long-range group-benefits, is very 
short-sighted. It gets you killed too 
quickly to do any good. 

The really intelligent intelligence- 
amplifier, then, would be intelligent 
enough to avoid revealing its (self- 
destructive!) powers of problem 
analysis. And, of course^ being more 
intelligent than the operator, the op- 
erator would never be able to detect 
that the machine was concealing its 
successful operation. 

The Editor. 



INTELLIGENCE AMPLIFICATION 



153 




BRASS TACKS 



Since so many had jun untangling 
IF. H. Plummer’s brain-teaser about 
kinetic energy and momentum . . . 
try this one, which doesn’t crack 
quite so simply. 

A rocket ship on the Earth-Mars 
run, has to accelerate 1 mile per 
second. The captain so informs the 
engineer. The captain observes Mars, 
up ahead, and determines that the 
engineer has, indeed, accelerated the 
ship 1 mile per second, from 29 to 
30 miles per second. The engineer, 
observing Earth, behind them, knows 
they accelerated 1 m.p.s. — fro?n 9 to 
10 m.p.s. (No fair asking u’bat sort 
of orbit the ship and the two planets 
are followingl In this Universe of 
Discourse, maybe the planets run in 
opposite directions around the Sun. 
Who cares?) 

Now the captain asks hoiv much 
fuel was used. The engineer reports 



that X kilograms of fuel were con- 
sumed. Thirty seconds later, the 
skipper calls down, "Hey, your me- 
ters are jammedl According to the 
figures you gave me, either you got 
498% efficiency out of your engines, 
or you’re using a fuel I never heard 
of, with five times the latent energy 
per pound of standard gojooz fuel." 

"Ah, skipper, your slide rule 
slipped a bearing," says the engineer. 
"1 figure we achieved 99% efficiency 
. . . which is better than I expected, 
to be honest, but not 500% I” 

Presently they realize they’re com- 
puting the energy in relation to dif- 
ferent frames of reference. But then 
they get into a worse argument. 
Which frame of reference should 
they use; Earth, whence they came, 
or Mars, where they have to make 
a landing? And how much energy 
did they get out of that fuel, any- 



164 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



way? The chemical energy in the 
fuel is not relative to external frames 
of reference! 



Dear Sir: 

Concerning the very interesting 
paradox raised by W. H. Plummer 
in the February edition, it is true 
that the spaceman returning to his 
ship with some small velocity rela- 
tive to his ship would have to dis- 
sipate an enormous amount of 
energy, as computed by an observer 
on I'.arth, if the ship were traveling 
at high velocity relative to Earth. 
However, this does not mean that 
the forte of impact when the space- 
man meets the ship will be any 
greater than it would be if the ship 
were sitting on the ground, all else 
being equal. The force of impact 
will still be measured by the time 
rate of change of angular momen- 
tum, i.c. 

F m (dv/dt) 

where m is the mass of the spaceman 
and dv/dt is the instantaneous time 
rate of change of his velocity at any 
instant during impact. How "hard” 
the spaceman will hit the ship will 
thus depend only on his change in 
velocity, rather than his velocity 
relative to Earth, and Mr. Plummer 
can rest easy. 

The huge amount of energy, as 
measured by the Earth observer, will 
still be dissipated none the less, if 
properly computed, being equal to 



s 

E = m / 
f 

2 2 

fdv/dt') ds = Vam fv — v ) 
i f 

as Mr. Plummer rightly concluded. 
(The subscripts i and f refer to the 
state at the beginning and end of the 
impact, respectively.) In evaluating 
the integral, it must be remembered 
that since everything is measured rel- 
ative to Earth, the distance s over 
which the force acts will be much 
greater than it would be if the ship 
were standing still on Earth. It 
would be ec|ual to the ship’s velocity 
divided by the duration of the im- 
pact, whereas, if the observer and 
spaceship were traveling together, 
the distance would be very much 
smaller, depending upon the relative 
velocity of ship and spaceman, 
rigidity of the hull, frictional forces, 
masses of ship and spaceman, et 
cetera. 

The whole point is that energy is 
a strictly relative quantity and de- 
pends on the frame of reference, 
whereas force is absolute in the sense 
that it does not depend upon the 
frame of reference, providing we 
stick to inertial (non-accelerated) 
frames. If, in dealing with the prob- 
lem at hand, we choose for our co- 
ordinate system one which is mov- 
ing with a velocity equal to, that, of 
the spaceship, the problem is much 
simplified and nothing is lost. The 
energy is then simply equal to y2mv2 
where v is the spaceman’s velocity. 

155 



BRASS TACKS 



This is the sort of procedure we 
ordinarily follow when we meet with 
dynamical problems. We do not con- 
sider, for example, the velocity of 
the Eardi relative to the fixed stars 
when ' computing the energy of a 
rhoving body here on Earth, though 
we might just as well if we chose to 
complicate the problem. 

The foregoing also answers the 
dilemma of Og and Ot appearing in 
the same letter. The fact is that 
though they arrive at different an- 
swers, both the ground observer and 
the train observer arc correct in their 
measurement of the energy lost by 
the bullet. However, the force of 
impact as measured by either Og or 
Ot would be identical. When Mr. 
Plummer asks, "How hard docs the 
bullet hit?” it is clear that he is 
confusing force of impact with 
energy- of motion. — Sjicnccr D. 
Raezer, Applied Physics Laboratory, 
8621 Georgia Avenue, Silver Spring, 
Maryland. 

That - dears np that one — and is 
essentially similar to about one 
hundred fifty other answers that 
little brain-teaser of Plummer’s 
drew! 



Dear. Mr. Campbell: 

Upon reading the February As- 
tounding, I became greatly intrigued 
over the"idea of the "printed circuit” 
Hieronymus machine — especially 
since it cost so little to build. When 
1 had, .finished drawing the circuit — 

13G 



India ink on typewriter paper — I 
realized I hadn’t figured out where 
to hook Up the metallic sensor plate. 
I checked the text, photos, and 
schematic, but was still in the dark. 
So I wrote to you for the answer. 
In the meantime, I proceeded to ex- 
periment without the sensor plate. 
At first — with myself — I had no 
results. When others tried it, the re- 
sults were amazing! I have compile! 
a list of my findings. 

In all cases, there was no "tacky” 
feeling or the sensation of having 
one’s hand in "spilled orange juice.” 
Instead, all reported a distinct feel- 
ing of warmth or heat upon touch- 
ing the paper spiral coil without a 
sensor plate. This heat, they .said, 
increa.sed gradually and then tapered 
off. Each time they said the sensation 
was strongest, the plastic prism had 
been turned exactly 45°. Of course, 
1 did not let anyone sec me turn the 
prism, so they could not have had 
any way to know when to start feel- 
ing the heat. 

The people whom I tested have 
little or no knowledge of electronics, 
and must of them do not read sci- 
ence fiction, 1 regret to report. No 
one knew what I was doing when 1 
simply asked theju to place one hand 
on the paper coil and tell me what 
they felt, if anything. All were mild- 
ly surprised when they "felt some- 
thing warm” as the prism moved to 
45°. (Nobody was as surprised as I 
when I got the first results!) 

I next tried putting a coffee can 
lid over the paper coil. Everyone 
tested said that it felt warmer than 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



tlie coil. (I would like to point out 
that I allowed for the chance that 
it was just the warmth of the metal 
lid they felt, because I disconnected 
the threads leading to the coil sev- 
eral times, and they then said that 
the lid felt cold.) I tried a scrap 
piece of aluminum next, and the re- 
sults indicated that the coffee can 
lid was a better "conductor.” Next, 
I used a plate of steel and they said 
that it was belter than even the 
coffee can lid. Now I put a piece of 
thick (V2") plastic on the coil, and 
my subjects declared that they could 
"just barely feel it.” (The heat, that 
is.) I don’t think my subjects were 
particularly aware at the time that 
it would take a powerful amount of 
voltage or a high static charge of 
electricity to cause any sensation on 
that plastic board. 

I then did some more experiment- 
ing, and the results of my efforts 
were quite unusual. 

It woidd seem that a bigger coil 
— larger in surface area — underneath 
a smaller one, and connected to it 
in parallel by threads, creates a more 
potent heat. The steel plate on top 
of this arrangement really sets um 
jumping! 

Shorting out the India ink con- 
denser immediately stops the ma- 
chine from functioning, but short- 
ing the plate coil in the schematic 
with a screwdriver or a strip of 
aluminum foil increases the heat out- 
put greatly. Some described a defi- 
nite — if one can be definite about 
something like this — "hot and cold 
all at once” sensation, and not a 



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157 



BRASS TACKS 



rise in temperature or decrease, as 
such, when I shorted the coil turns. 

When I laid a small strip of 
aluminum foil over the two exten- 
sions coming off of the circle around 
the prism in the drawing, they all 
said that the "hot-cold” sensation 
was present. (They were quite cer- 
tain the "coldness” was not that of 
the metal plate. I tested this by dis- 
connecting the threads to the coil 
several times.) But when I penciled 
in a line between the extensions 
where the aluminum foil had been, 
all sensation stopped, as though tlie 
condenser were shorted, or the ma- 
chine inoperative! 

When I shorted the big black dot 
in the center of the circle in which 
the prism rotates to the rim of the 
circle, there was a feeling of "cold- 
ness,” but it was not the temperature 
of the metal plate, they said. 

I next connected a 360 mmf 
tuning condenser across the plates 
of the India ink condenser in the 
diagram. This was done with wires, 
however, as it was becoming incon- 
venient to use so much thread. An 
extra-strong feeling of heat was de- 
scribed as emanating from the steel 
plate when the plates of the con- 
denser were open nearly all the way. 
(This particular subject, least of all, 
could know what a tuning condenser 
is; he was only eight years old!) 
The heat tapered off as I closed the 
plates of the condenser, while leav- 
ing the prism at 45°. 

I drew a step-up transformer 
schematic diagram, minus the core, 
in ballpoint pen ink. Then I hooked 

158 



the primary — with the least number 
of turns — to the threads coming 
from the diagram and the secondary 
to the good old steel plate. This, of 
all the previous arrangements, seem- 
ed to produce the most heat. When 
I reversed the transformer, only a 
slight heat was felt. 

After this, I used a genuine metal 
and wire electromagnetic speaker 
field coil in place of the paper spiral 
coil and nylon threads. This coil 
weighed some eight pounds anil 
could handle over 150 volts @ 25 
milliamps. I set the steel plate on 
the coil, and 1 turned the prism to 
45° while the subject had his hand 
on the plate. Nearly as strong a sen- 
sation was described as that of the 
inked step-up transformer. 

A very unusual thing, yet, then 
again not .so strange at that, is that 
when I reversed the connections (o 
the above field coil, each and every 
time the subject said the heat turned 
to cold — not the cold of the plate, 
but colder still ! Maybe the machine 
generates something when hooked 
u|5 one way, and absorbs that some- 
thing when hooked in reverse (?). 

This is the extent of my findings 
at present. All whom I tested, I 
tested individually, and none were 
aware before they passed through 
the portals of my ham shack of what 
they were going to be asked to do. 
When they saw the breadboard lay- 
out that was the Hieronymus ma- 
chine, they probably assumed it to 
be just another of the "crazy” gad- 
gets littering the shack. Unless they 
knew what one looked like, they 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION 



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coiildn'l know that it was a psionic 
device. No one knew. 

1 myself, as 1 mentioned, seem to 
get no sens.Uion from the machine; 
possibly it is due to the fact that I 
am a ham radio operator, and we 
just don’t believe in such things! 
But from what I’ve seen, I am going 
to have to revise my thinking ! I must 
say, I felt pretty silly building the 
psionic machine, and most of my 
friends whom 1 told about it were 
undecided as to which was crazier — 
me or the machine. Strangely 
enough, none of the skeptics were 
science-fiction addicts, and none had 
read the article in the February 
Astounding. 

I would like to know, John, how 
and where you got the idea to draw 
the schematic of the Hieronymus 
machine on paper in the way in 
which it appeared. How did you 
think to put the parts down in such 
a way so that they work? Will they 
work in any relative positions, to 

BRASS TACKS 



your knowledge? Also, how did Mr. 
H. himself discover the machine? 

This machine cost me absolutely 
nothing, as I omitted the vernier 
dial. I used a wood screw, fastened 
head first, in a plastic knob and 
driven into the surface of the prism. 

I would like to get hold of more 
material on psionic machines and 
the like, in the future. 

I don’t attempt to offer any con- 
clusions or Great Truths as to how 
or why the Hieronymus machine 
works as it does, but I would like 
to hear about any ideas on the sub- 
ject or experiments you or your 
readers might have. 

I will keep on experimenting, 
and reporting my results, if any. — - 
David M. Dressier, K6MLE, 6835 
Peach Avenue, Van Nuys, Califor- 
nia. 

Psionic Machme Type Three, by 
gosh! It’s wonderful what a little 
inaccuracy of statement can do to 

159 



promote original discovery! 1 
never tried using a metallic tactile 
plate; I’ve used only plastic. The 
description in the February '51 
issue wasn’t clear on that, as a 
number of readers pointed out, so 
Mr, Dressier has invented a new 
device. 1 used a piece of metal as 
a sample; not as the tactile sur- 
face, What were you using as the 
sample on your machine? How 
connected? 

And as 'to how I or Hieronymus 
thought to build the machines — 
same way you did, friend! "Try 
it and see!” 



Dear Editor: 

Due to your courageous sponsor- 
ing of consideration of Psi phe- 
nomena, one feels most grateful- 
ly that in these columns speculation 
on kindred "unscientific” material 
will at the very least not expose you 
to ridicule. I am encouraged then 
to broach a subject long of intense 
interest to me in the hope of inciting 
others either to comment or to in- 
vestigation. I refer to the matter of 
prevision in dreams, or dreaming of 
future incidents, as originally inves- 
tigated by J. W. Dunne, the British 
aeronautical engineer. 

Prior to his death in 1948 Mr. 
Dunne had published four books: 
"An Experiment with Time and the 
Serial Universe,” with two populari- 
zations of the thesis. The author 
commences by describing his own 
innumerable instances of dreaming 
of future happenings, and then 

160 



proceeds to evolve a theory to ex- 
plain the phenomenon. Dunne was 
far from being a crackpot: he de- 
signed Britain’s first military plane 
and was a distinguished engineer. 
H. G. Wells and Joseph Priestley 
were among his admirers. He was 
given permission to conduct a large- 
scale experiment of dream pre-vision 
with students at Oxford, and the 
account of this and its extremely 
productive outcome are given in the 
first named book. 

The experience of dreaming the 
future is extremely common, and the 
chances are good that you who read 
this have done it inany times. The 
trick of noting these dreams is de- 
scribed, and once you catch on you 
will find the thing so routine tliat 
you may end by paying little atten- 
tion to it. But: what docs the plic- 
nomenon imply? First, you satisfy 
yourself that it can be done; then 
the true scientist must worry away 
at it for a solution. Dunne did this, 
but it does not follow that his theory 
is the correct one, of course. 

That is the object of my letter: 
to encourage others to write in with 
their opinions of the man’s answer, 
and the mathematically-trained to 
evaluate his proofs — which are 
wholly beyond my field; I have often 
wondered how they stand up under 
competent scrutiny. I should appre- 
ciate any letters from serious inves- 
tigators of ‘ the Dunne Time theory, 
especially from those technically 
qualified to endorse or refute it. 

Congratulations on the advanced 
and adventurous thinking of the 



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The experiment is fun, requires no 
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you! 



Dear Mr. Campbell: 

As you know, there are numerous 
Rocket and Propulsion societies in 
this country, some with a very wide 
membership. 

We would like, however, to ac- 
quaint both you and the readers of 
ASF with another type of Society — • 
the Society for the Advancement of 
Space Travel. 

SAST has as its purpose an entire- 
ly different aim. We are an organi- 
zation devoted to the study of the 
social and human problems involved 
in space travel. 

As part of this, we include the 
education of the public towards the 
inevitable — the actual construction 
of an interplanetary rocket; one 
could call this a cat heralded by a 
MOUSE. 

SAST, although not a particularly 
large organization, is affiliated with 



the American Astronautical Federa- 
tion. Our members are predominant- 
ly college graduates and college 
students. This is not due to restric- 
tion on our part; to date, however, 
most of our members have heard of 
us by word-of-mouth, and we have 
had minimal publicity. 

SAST publishes a quarterly en- 
titled Frontier, as well as occasional 
technical booklets and supplements. 
For example, a supplement on ele- 
mentary matrix algebra is now in 
preparation; Frontier is presently 
running a series on Symbolic Logic; 
and quite recently our editor prepared 
a bibliography of English-language 
books on space flight. 

Frontier also reviews and digests 
books on the subject of space travel, 
and, of course, presents data on 
trends and opinions in the United 
States. Towards this end we main- 
tain a testing and opinion polling 
program. 

We should appreciate very much 
your publishing this letter, dn Brass 
Tacks. We hope to increase our 
active membership during the com- 
ing year, and ASF circulates to an 
extremely appropriate population. 



BRASS TACKS 



ICl 



Persons interested in joining 
SAST, or in information about the 
Society should contact the under- 
signed. — Peter Zilahy Ingerman, 
SAST Secretary, 4305 Locust Street, 
Philadelphia 4, Pennsylvania. 
Thinking about a problem before it 
slugs you is usually advantageous. 



Dear John: 

■ Towards the end of your editorial 
in the February issue, you again 
mention our patent laws. The gen- 
eral impression that 1 have gathered 
from your remarks made over the 
years about the patent system is that 
you feel the researcher or inventor 
cannot properly be protected and re- 
warded for his work if it involves 
the discovery of new laws of nature. 

The patent laws were not written 
to protect inventors. They were writ- 
ten in the interest of the public as a 
whole. If there were no patent laws, 
inventors would tend to use their 
inventions as secret processes and so 
keep them for many years from wide 
use and the resultAg public benefit. 
By granting a patent, the Patent 
Office gives the inventor a limited 
monopoly to make, use, and sell his 
invention for seventeen years. In 
return for the potential advantage 
of the monopoly, the inventor has 
disclosed his invention to anyone 
who wants to buy a printed copy of 
his patent and, at the end of die 
seventeen years, the invention passes 
into the public domain to be used 
for the benefit of any and all. 
Therefore it can be seen that inven- 

162 



tors as a small group are not in- 
tended to be singled out for special 
favor from die government. 

Suppose you discover a new natu- 
ral law dealing with extrasensory 
phenomenon. Why should die Pa- 
tent Office give you a monopoly to 
make, use, and sell all processes or 
devices that function according to 
this natural law? Another inventor 
may make a superior device that you 
never contemplated ' that follows 
your claimed principle. If you were 
granted a patent on this natural law, 
it would tend to make the second 
inventor withhold his superior in- 
vention in secrecy to die detriment 
of the public. 

Actually, in the United States, 
we have one of the finest patent 
systems in the world. Critics must 
realize, however, that a patent is 
only a valuable first step towards 
capitalizing on an invention. Good 
business sense and a realistic evalua- 
tion of the invention are also neces- 
sary. — Peter L. Tailer, Reg. Pat. 
Agt., 22 E. 17th Street, N. Y. C. 3, 
New York. 

If your reasoning is applied to pres- 
ent situations, then there should 
be no improvement patents ap- 
plied for. Also, your expression 
of the intent of the patent law is 
incomplete; as stated, the purpose 
is simply to encourage disclosure 
of inventions already achieved. 
But there is also the purpose of 
offering potential reward to en- 
courage individuals to invent 
things. 

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